THE PRELUDE (to “This Is Just To Say”):

Oh there is blessing in this icy box
That holds our fruit and holds our water jars,
And holds our meat: it makes a gentle hum,
And seems half conscious of the joy it gives.
O welcome Provender! O welcome Friend!
A trav'ller greets thee, coming from the trail,
And famished, from the mountain path returned,
A pilgrimage where he hath eaten not.
Now I am home, within four walls again,
May take my delectation how I will.
What dinner shall suffice me? In what drink
Shall be my relief? What aperitif
Shall spark my appetite, and what sweet cream
Shall with what berries lull me at dessert?
The fridge is all before me: with a heart
Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty
I look about, and should the guide I chuse
Be nothing better than a buzzing fly
I cannot but chuse well. I breathe again;
Trances of fasts and grumblings of the gut
Come quick upon me: they are felt again,
As I scan the fridge they are felt again,
The deprivations of my wandering days,
The dust and weight of many a weary day
Unfed, or fed by bars and pemmican.
Full bowls of fruit (if I may boldly take
Your breakfast-promised plums and make them mine)
Full bowls of food and undisturbed delight
Are mine in prospect; how shall I begin,
With soup or nut or with a smorgasbord,
Or shall I dare to take delicious plums,
And let these drupes be my initial course?