A Sonnet to the Slightly Charred and Deeply Divine.

Upon a plate, my humble throne was laid,

With parsnip spears both crisp and pale with fire—

Some kissed too long by heat, some shy, afraid,

Yet all conspired to meet my heart’s desire.

A salad fresh, with apple, carrot, leaf,

Tomatoes round as joy, their skins a song.

Their colors danced like springtime’s sweet relief,

In vibrant shades where nothing could go wrong.

The fava beans, in stew of earthy gold,

With onion, pepper, tomato in bloom—

A tale of warmth and flavor gently told,

A comfort stirred within the kitchen's womb.

This feast I made with whispers none could see—

A quiet friend, and all of it for me.