Low Profile

ode to celery

 

Where is the praise song

for you, the hymn to celery?

Pale, stringy, rough stalks,

pallid leaves, yet you are

everywhere: soups, salads,

slaw, appetizers, loyal boxes

of pre-cut carrots with your

stubby sticks for easy snacks.

The true journeyman of vegies

like stagehands who push scenery

in place for the main event.

When does anyone pull you

from behind the curtain

for bouquets, to take a bow?

 

No clamor for attention,

only modesty, humility:

a fate you accept,

often discovered

in some corner bin

of the refrigerator

mouldering, all crispness

long gone, forgotten.

Most muted of your tribe

you never complain,

like nuns who practice silence,

toil together loyally, meditating

for our broken world.

So you hear us say as we

make our casseroles and soups,

“Don’t forget the celery!”

 

In you go, a quiet prayer

to comfort, to reassure

us humans we haven’t

failed the recipe.