Butter <br /> <br />Butter, like love, <br />seems common enough <br />yet has so many imitators. <br />I held a brick of it, heavy and cool, <br />and glimpsed what seemed like skin <br />beneath a corner of its wrap; <br />the decolletage revealed <br />a most attractive fat! <br /> <br />And most refined. <br />Not milk, not cream, <br />not even creme de la creme. <br />It was a delicacy which assured me <br />that bliss follows agitation, <br />that even pasture daisies <br />through the alchemy of four stomachs <br />may grace a king's table. <br /> <br />We have a yellow bowl near the toaster <br />where summer's butter grows <br />soft and sentimental. <br />We love it better for its weeping, <br />its nostalgia for buckets and churns <br />and deep stone wells, <br />for the press of a wooden butter mold <br />shaped like a swollen heart. <br /> <br /><br /><br />Connie Wanek<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/butter/
