Small Sweetnesses

Twin tiny tarts sit neatly

Upon their small glass plate;

Fresh fruit that ripened sweetly

Has been arranged, ornate–

 

Cold creamy custard, smooth and

Set, and golden pastry crust,

When eaten, leave upon one’s hand

A little sugar dust.

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Ode to a Baked Potato, on First Coming Out of the Oven

Your salted skin,

Thin, crisply brown,

Conceals within

A wealth of starch,

And butter is

Your golden crown.

 

Though lowly born,

O child of earth,

Your value is

A ransom’s worth

To one who knows

A famine’s dearth.

 

The light of sun

You do not know,

But heated by

An oven’s glow,

You bring us warmth

From lands below.