mimic of Billy Collins' "Litany"

the original (which is actually a sort of mimic)

Litany
Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.


Mimic
Bethany S***

You are the cheese and the fork,
the ceramic mug and the mead.
You are the velvet on the evening jasmine
and the singing voice of the wind.
You are the red lips of the gypsy,
and the skittish deer quietly in sight.

However, you are not the sun in the leaves,
the asters on the meadow,
or the web of gossamer.
And you are certainly not the sea-salted shore.
There is just no way that you are the sea-salted shore.

It is possible that you are the mouse under the floorboard,
maybe even the rose on the dandy’s lapel,
but you are not even close
to being the coo of doves at sunrise.

And a slow dance in the moonlight will show
that you are neither the fireflies in the air
nor the cricket alive in its song.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the taste of persimmons on the tongue.

I also happen to be the laughing rain,
the copper pots hanging on a hook
and the bottle of milk on the front step.

I am also the soup in the bowl
and the hungry man’s appetite.
But don’t worry, I’m not the cheese and the fork.
You are still the cheese and the fork.
You will always be the cheese and the fork,
Not to mention the ceramic mug and—somehow—the mead.