Asparagust of Wind

Too oft have I sat beneath a kind tree

slavering over moments alone with thee.

Sighing, I catch on the merest breeze

a wondrous aroma; my nose it doth tease.

I arise with a start, alert to your magic

and fearing to lose you, foreboding the tragic,

I wrench me from my lugubrious perch

to hunt cunning scent that bids me lurch

through bramble dry and brackish swamp,

over stony pasture and two-tracks to stomp.

Vanquishing foul, irksome pests I allege

my steadfast devotion with this humble pledge:          

Where I find you, I drop and on bent knee attend

in thrall, dark to dawn, as from loam you extend,

till the moment precise I must pluck your sweet form

to swath in a butter-bath golden and warm,

then tenderly bring you to plate and to mouth,

exalting your flavor east, west, north, and south,

as the singular green with the shape of a goddess

and taste that experience surely has taught us

is without any peer elsewhere in the garden--

all other vegetables, begging your pardon;

for Asparagus’ glory soars above all, oh!

remains past a succulent chew and a swallow.

Where’er you are savored, you leaveth behind

an alimentary postscript unique, well designed

to chasten your status: neath God you must carry

one lowlier trait, your stink that doth tarry.

Lo, of disparagement no words do I speak;

with pride do I cloak me in thy honorable reek.

Discrete among a myriad postprandial smells,

your asparagusting wind, nonpareil, excels.