ODE TO THE POTATO

O homely spud
muddied orphan
lumpish ragamuffin
from the far side of the furrows,
poor relation to noble Eggplant
Cardinal Tomato
Magical Mandrake
and elegant Belladonna,
though often mistaken
for a clod of dirt
you have a soul as pure
as any Irish saint's -
you send up for blossoms
white stars from the ground.

O subterranean emissary
earth-ivory
friend to the poor
when helped from your homespun jacket
you are welcomed as well
by the well-to-do
who love your symphonies of starch
your crisp gold coins,
invite you to their tables
as formal white companion
to the tawny mignon.

O egalitarian tuber
like us you are a child of earth,
that yet contains the stuff of heaven -
when mashed into clouds
with a bit of cream,
the peaks you achieve
from such lowly beginnings
nourish and inspire us all.