The Menu

In silence deep before dawn,

The chef begins with apron on.

A pen in hand, the garden near,

The muse of soil begins to steer.

Each leaf and sprout a whispered cue,

The beets are bold, the peas still new.

The figs are ripe, the thyme is dry

He notes the gifts the earth supply.

No fire roars, no pans arise,

Just thoughts that dance behind his eyes.

He plots a plate, then starts anew,

Unsure of what the dish will do.

A chef’s mind bends where seasons pull,

Each choice is tender, purposeful.

A peach too soon? A sauce too loud?

A menu's meant to make one proud.

And yet the weight, it presses tight

To serve what’s honest, true, and right.

To bind the fleeting to a plate,

And let the eater feel its weight.

The struggle’s not in heat or speed,

But in the patience menus need.

To pair the bitter with the sweet,

And humbly bow where gardens meet.

His canvas lies in root and rind,

And in that task, he locks his mind.

No chaos here, just endless thread,

Of all that’s grown, and all he’s read.

A prisoner of flavor's spell,

He crafts what words could never tell.

Though bound within his kitchen wall,

He touches something vast and tall.

Each line he writes, a prayer, a song

To summer’s reign or winter’s wrong.

The menu, more than food or price,

Is where restraint becomes precise.

So bite by bite and dish by dish,

He offers not just meals, but wish.

That you may taste, with every chew,

The love it took to write it true.