|
epitome of incomprehensibility
|
The story behind this: in the slow days of 2020 or 2021, I was sitting in David's Verdun living room while he cooked dinner. I'd asked him if he needed help but he said no, there wasn't much left to do. What I could do was write.
I tried to work on a scene of my novel, but I couldn't focus. I complained to him, frustrated with myself. He called from the kitchen, "Okay, here's a prompt! Write a poem starting 'Garlic is a funny bulb'!"
Readers, I did.
Garlic is a funny bulb,
A mystery I cannot solb.
There’s nothing like it on the glolb.
I chanced upon a garlic plant
One night when ants were adamant.
I and the bulb stood hant to hant.
I grasped it firmly by the hair;
My offense caused it quite a scare.
It fought most valiantly there.
At last I summoned all my might.
I pulled it as the moon pulls night.
It fell upon me, wreathed in light.
“Lo, I am fire,” quoth the root,
“The taste of heat and life and loot.
My heart is yours, but not my boot.”
So ends the tale of garlic sour;
I think upon it each half hour.
Yet who can dream a finer flower?
|
230317
|
