“cheese curds”

In Wisconsin fields where the dairies sprawl,  
Milk morning-fresh in the creamery hall—  
A quiet alchemy, old as the earth,  
Bubbles and brims in a hush of rebirth.

Behold the cheese curd, humble and gold,  
Still warm from the vat, never aged, never cold.  
They squeak on your teeth, a jubilant sound—  
Each bite a small festival spun from the ground.

They glisten in baskets by arms that have known  
The rhythm of churning, the harvest well-sown,  
Salt-dusted pillows of cheddar delight,  
A taste of green pasture at morning’s first light.

Sprinkled on poutine, they melt into dreams;  
Fried up and golden, they shimmer and steam.  
A fairground indulgence, a snapshot in time,  
As laughter and summer like music entwine.

Cheese curds—simple, and wondrous, and true,  
Born of the heartland, the sunlight, the dew.  
A morsel of comfort, a story, a song,  
In each happy mouthful, the world feels less wrong.

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