Every time I see you gloating on plates

Showing off autumn’s colors and particular shapes

My head spins; my taste bud awake

My eyes brighten with contemplation

My pulse quickens with expectation

My nose tickles with the anticipation

Dare I touch your velvety coat?

May be just a gentle poke

Dare I slice you to the heart?

To glory at your essential part

Dare I take just one taste?

Oh! My love, will I be swept into pastoral lands?

Meadows dressed with mountain herbs

Grasses growing rich from spring rains

Weather patterns playing on the fields

Cattle grazing in nonchalant pose

Milk spilling from earthenware urns

This is your history and much more

Your form and shape are well defined

Your texture and color always refined

Sometimes you are streaked with blue

Roquefort, Fourme d’Ambert or Bleu de Gex

Sometimes your ordor is sensationally strong

Are you Munster, Maroilles, or Neufchatel?

Then, my love, your seductive powers

Are but dulcet sonnets to my nose

Sending rhythms down to my toes

Now to taste

I take my time, lingering

Subtle, creamy, with a distinctive tang

Is this Camembert, Charolais, or Chabichou?

Goat, cow, or ewe?

Are you from the snow-capped mountains?

Or, the sun blessed plains?

You guard your secret well

But, my love, by your taste I know

Artful as you are

Cunning, tantalizing and sensuous

My love, I detect distinctive signs

In the upper reaches of the palate

In the lower register of my tongue

I sense your secrets; I find my pleasure

You are without comparable measure

Now, if only I could find some wine

Everything would be sublime

David Nutt, February 2005