G. K. Chesterton: “Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.”

It’s no mystery
Cheese speaks for itself
Its dizzying variety
Their names a poem alone
The unending possibilities
Either eaten in slices
Placed on pieces of bread
Melted
Scorched
Toasted
Covering pasta
Smoothing over bagels
Resting on crackers
And soothing the tired soul
Cheese is not worthy of poetry
Cheese IS poetry