POEM: An ode to rhubarb, “Queen of Tart”

May 11, 2026

By Kathie Burnett

Ode to Rhubarb

  (in the spirit of Neruda)

Rhubarb,

You come back to me

before all the others.

When the last snows

dissipate into fog

and disappear

then you appear,

first to peek through

the softening earth,

ruddy knuckles 

that brave April's chilly winds,

forging upward

day by day

in quiet determination.

Then, like a magician

who pulls the scarf 

out of nowhere,

you unfurl your fronds

from tight wrinkled fists

that explode into leaves

the size of elephant ears,

expand to fill

the corner of the garden, 

billowing out

like the skirts

of Marie Antoinette.

And you, my Queen,

have risen to reign

over all the rest

with your tall scepter

wreathed in blossoms.

All the rest-

the tomato

the lowly squash vines

the humble onion-

pay homage.

O, Rhubarb

many dismiss you

with the commoner's name:

the "pie plant",

as if you were 

indistinguishable

from any fruit or pumpkin.

Rhubarb,

Queen of Tart,

when you donate 

one of your long rosy ribs,

as generous as Adam's

gift to Eve,

and allow it to be 

steamed and mellowed,

the married to the strawberry

both bathed in a

syrup of sweetness...

O, Rhubarb,

then we celebrate spring,

the first fruits of the earth

and all that is to come.

—Burnett lives in Blue Hill.

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