The Telltale Taste of Celery
Not hard to know when you’re around -
A glimpse of that exuberance of brown;
The tingling in the expectant part
Of my half-vigilant eyes.
You’d be ever-present, come to think of it
Were I to widen the scope of where I am.
Were I a paragon of this culture,
Present in every breath of every town.
Christmas – A shard of coloured Capiz on a star
April – Ever-shifting ice amidst a rainbow
Easter – Blood upon the returning pilgrim’s car
August – Soaked-through shirt, joyous in the overflow
Far from salt of the Earth, I believe I am more akin
To that which you being there reminds me of:
The telltale taste of celery, quite unlike
Any other vegetable, however familiar it becomes.
Sharp,
Unmistakable!
Not entirely pleasant.
Not entirely inevitable. Opinions are like allergies,
Which can, with patience, be conquered in time.
Yet were your taste of celery to infuse me
Until I, celery as well, acquired immunity,
Would not my very scent be unpalatable
To the one who had, slowly, become it?
