To cook is to be in love.
You remember biting
into a fresh plum, like the first
youthful kiss of summer. You recall
that as you accentuate the flavors
and carefully slice the same
sort of plum, in the same way
you would caress the lover
who gave you that kiss
so long ago. There is no end
to the permutations
of such a passionately
begun artifice