Asparagus: Love in Any Language

Because one ode to asparagus is one stalk too short.

 We cherish for reasons too reckless to fathom,

 which wrench us from tongue-tied to babbling spasm

 attempting to capture with poor words untrustable

 the rhapsodic qualities of a food supragustable,

 found in all kitchens most humble to noble,

 from hamlets obscure to metropolises global.

 Thus we must chortle of Asparagus officianalis,

 delicate spires whose taste over all is,

 no matter the service--paper plates or ceramic,

 pewter or china or glass–a dynamic

 without a contender to reckon a peer,

 so nuanced and rare is this elegant speer.

 It wins palate’s praise with no more than dashed salt

 yet under a sauce of cream Sherried, we exalt

 what boldly stands up to so weighty a drape,

 whether next to a planked fish or wrapped in a crepe.

 There is nothing to which it must bow, this asperge--

 request of a waiter, chef, or concierge

 to name any other vegetable cargo

 that meets the delights of the sweet spring espargo.

 Can there be a bud like Asparagus esculentus

 that while we await May can so much torment us

 we shall dream of the salad or bisque asparag,

 driven half to delirium, with taste buds agog;

 not to mention our hearts and whims gustatory

 left bereft by et alia of the green category.

 Yes, bring us the stalk whose texture and smell

 can cause duels at the table and send us pell mell

 to the garden in search of the last one remaining,

 for love mad and hopeless of justly explaining.

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