Dear Sapience,

I was at my stove - salt, oil, flame - when a potato met its glorious fate. Crisped to gold, Perfected.

And I thought: How Strange, How Odd, that something so rooted can rise so high! How Strange, that some only see the dirt, never the dish.

This Poem is for the potato. Only the Potato.

Obviously,

<@@> A Potato Vision <@@>

Oh, humble potato head, with starchy grin and
Eyes so deep,
A rooted promise the soil will keep.
Content in darkness, your ancient watch you
Steep.
Golden in the pan, a sizzle and a swirl,
A dusting of salt makes a plain jane curl.

Now you're a vision, my beautiful girl!

<@@@```````@@@>

Dear Reader, May it nourish you, as it has nourished me.

In Service Eternal,
Ramilies Da'Navi

Penned by my hand, in the Great Kitchens of Our Enneagon, on this day of the Month of Ero, in Early Summer, nine hundred and ninety eight years after the Fall of the Selucarian Empire.




Penned by my hand on the 12th of Ero, in the year 998 AF.