The mountain sees itself for the first time

and admires its reflection.  When a salad looks at itself, what does it see?  Which ingredient does it recognize first?  Is it true, poems are partial to prepositions & the particulars of gender?

White table

A white table has much to say to blue.  To a blue vase.  To blue agapanthus.  To evening.  What will the poem say to this dance of color.  Which foods are blue by color & emotion?  I hear Ella F. Do you?

Confessions from one who loves red

Nevertheless, I am drawn to graphite;  I gravitate to gray.  Gray is such a perhaps-color, don't you think?  Perhaps, this is why I have had numerous love affairs with the word "perhaps."  By the way, there is little if any "perhaps" in my liking of food.  On that subject, I'm decisive. And with poetry?  I can answer that in a blink:

there is no "perhaps" when she wears red shoes

Whorls

Who doesn't love spirals  -- vegetal or pasta?

Or, for that matter,  words which twist & spiral on a page or ear.  Or in the mouth.

Enough

Can't get enough of the ripe & juicy.
Can't get enough of the ripe & the rooty.
Think of tubers.  As varied as the voices
of poetry.  As varied as the offerings
at a farmer's market.  Perhaps, this post
should be reposted, "Celebrate."

How do lemons and the paper a poem is written on resemble each other?

The short direct answer is shape.
Lemons beg to rest in a shape resembling a bowl. Concave. The love of a lip.
Poems love to recline. Yes, think bed. Poems are smitten by rest.