poem poems

The Knife

The knife, this sharp device, is made
to cut until it hits the bones,
or dig until it finds the stones,
and warn off danger with its blade.

It cuts the fat beneath the skin,
and slices the apples, then the pie.
With onion rings, it makes one cry,
and helps a pumpkin get a grin.

This kitchen artist needs a hand
to speed its work upon the bread;
it lies to cut and slants to spread
the butter under its command.

The knife is steel that seldom rests
because it has a lot to do,
from taking duties on a screw
to stripping turkeys for our guests.

  

Poems: A page of Rosa Clement´s site
© (1999)