One of Life's Great Mysteries

I ask myself each morning how it is
That this most humble food,
Less dear, less treasured by most tongues
Than an eclair or robust roast
Propells me to the heights of joy:
A slice of buttered toast.





Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2024-11-26 at 17:36

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because it existed before you
you adapted to it
2024-11-27


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
In my opinion much depends upon the quality of the butter.
Blessings, Allen
2024-11-26