The extended comparison at the end of this poem stretches out a food metaphor into a celebration of the plain.
Mashed potatoes and turnip are nutrient poor from the endless boil
but love doesn’t leach.
I buy starfruit when I can.
Thin cross-sections make a constellation
atop my roasted salad of parsnips and beets.
They still dazzle me,
though I’ve learned it’s roots that sustain.
A bit of dazzle is not uncalled for. The metaphorical splendid on its base of the literal.
And so for day 2290