A tuber, diced and quartered, from the field;
an olive, green and pitted, from the tree.
When times were fallow, love was pressed to yield
a tuber, diced and quartered, from the field.
What one mouth sought, another filled.
That silver integer of fish that burgeoned far from sea.
A tuber, diced and quartered, from the field;
an olive, green and pitted, from the tree.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
What I especially like about this is the fit of form to feast: it reminds me of how dishes are passed around in tapas. (As well of many good meals involving tuber, fish, and olive.)