A taste of honeyed apples, and of something
Slightly acid escorts the heavy tears
Of wine, and its green-reflected amber
Speaks of long-past autumns. The debate
Between nature and time has been
Reopened this feast-day, when a dinner guest
Remarks: If Voltaire writes fables
It’s because truth, in order to be understood
Must first be believed. On the carpet
In front of the fireplace dozes
A cat we must step over carefully
To bring the sliced warm bread, the terrine
Of woodcock and foie gras
With hand-ground pistachios.