Someone once told me, when trying to describe to me how poetry is innate to the French language, that the French word for potato is pomme de terre, which means apple of the earth, a phrase that caused me to smile when I heard it, and to say it to myself several times, aloud, because I liked it so much, for what seems to me its lyricism, though I suppose there is nothing unusual about it, and that, as a usage, it makes sense, or is rational, insofar as the fruit that we identify as an apple, in English, were it to grow in the soil, as opposed to on the branches of a tree, would call to mind that vegetable we’ve named potato, though the two foods would still differ from each other in taste, one being sweet, and the other being hard, or starchy; and yet, for me, as well as for that person who told me about it, the phrasing remains poetic, though of course poetry isn’t opposed to that which is rational, anyway, but only to that which is false, rather than that which is strictly untrue.