[Martin Elster]

A Bit of Ginger Rhizome

On the counter rests your reddish-yellow root
Getting dryer by the day, yet a small shoot
Grows from you clear and tender as a sigh
Of wind through the leaves of a tree of forbidden fruit.

You’ve sat there since the outset of July
Just minding your own business. Now I eye
Your shriveled, wooden form, your skin as thin
As cellophane. You do not wail or cry

Your fragrance with the loud odiferous din
You did when you were fresh. Oh, I must grin
At your tenacity to persevere
By sprouting brand new buds. You just hang in

There like an enervated mountaineer
Still clinging to some tree roots on a sheer
Rock face. I pick you up and taste the meat
Of your infant shoot. The flavor’s copper-clear.

But the dryer piece of you tastes like the beat
Of a far-off kettle drum now in retreat.
Yet, from your offspring, I will make a treat
That I bet you never dreamed could be so sweet!