Quiche For Sale

She smolders in her warmth and subtle juice.

She’s filled with loves’ own complex condiment:

here made with careful heart at home to choose

the mystic of each cheese from heaven sent.

Here solemn sits she, wrapped in spinach green

whose rising odor soothes of smothered egg

chopped onions roasted with a glorious sheen

whipped peppers tingled-red now beg

among her mixed embellishments and sigh

the chef’s intentions with her fancy flair.

Yet, weep all those who would, with eager eye

share gold concoctions with abandoned air.

La Quiche, we sigh for sisters, tearful, all;

for unrequited love our duties call.

(One never knows what I might use for a poem.  The story:  my daughter rises early this Sunday am to make breakfast for her brother.  The plan was to visit his new digs with breakfast made with loving hands at home.  As she takes the gorgeous thing out of the oven, he calls  an hour before our arrival to say he will not be home for our planned visit 3 days ago!   This beauty is still warm as I write, smiling.)

cooking, food, humor, Poetry