Ode to Arugula

Ahh, how I welcome you each spring

after months of bitter, shop-worn imitation;

that which yellows at edge and emits

a musty, stale fragrance—not at all like

the fruit of seeds planted two inches deep

and two inches apart.

Lettuces, you are—fresh and tender

arugula, radicchio, cress and romaine,

leafy and boasting technicolor greens and russets

that curl and cue and reach for the solstice.

How I welcome that morn after endless toil

when I notice the chartreuse specks

poking alien-like through the ebony soil.

First one, then soon, two

miniscule pinpoints, sopping nature’s tears,

measuring early summer sun

and pleasant breeze, awakening from

hibernating seed.

Now, each morning becomes a ritual

progress report calculating the first harvest.

Boston, sweet Boston Bibb, your pale neon tenderness

belies your strength.

Baby red romaine, flounced like the hem

on a young girl’s dress;

spinach, Popeye’s favorite source of iron,

and lavender-hued kale, picked before its breadth

equals two fingers to ensure its perfect

balance of spice and verdant.

But arugula, peppery and smart, the Lucille Ball

of lettuces, you are the one most adored.

Arugula--even your name is exotic

and rolls off our tongues like some screwball artifact.

You, the most versatile one,

candied with pecans or sprinkled with asiago flakes

(asiago and arugula, lovers entangled on grilled

focaccia, floating on a sea of pomodoro, how heavenly!)

You are the one I anticipate most, when your

chartreuse pokes through ebony soil,

I wait like a patient paramour for the pepper-spice green

you deliver to my eager, yearning palate.