Friday, September 11, 2020

Halved

This is the work of shadowed reflection.  Like only one side of a spoon. Half the alphabet.  Is it any surprise, here are no ripe tomatoes left?  

 

Wednesday, September 9, 2020

Amid metal and sun


something is grabbing attention.  Something spins.  Something comes forward.  But what is receding at this time?  I want to cook something with betacarotene.  Lots of it.  Roasted carrot hummus dip.  Perhaps a poem to accompany.  

Tuesday, September 8, 2020

It is a holiday, after all.


 Something should float today.  Yes, colorful.  Something with joy as its ballast.  It's a stretch, I know.

Tuesday, August 25, 2020

Not your usual cherry tomato

Not the usual garden.  Perhaps, best to keep quarantined though quite striking, don't you think?


Monday, August 24, 2020

Scurry

Some words are perfect even if they aren't spoken everyday.  But when they are spoken, they send forth a visual.  A gesture to being in two places at the same time.  Like a spoon dipping into sauce.  A pen approaching paper.  A scurrying of light. 

Saturday, August 22, 2020

Whatever is happening, it looks hopeful



 

At the center of these times are four letters:  HOPE.  Swirling inward and outward.  No separation.  The world's mirror is not static.  

Wednesday, August 19, 2020

Vessels for gestures

 

Glass gladly holds reflections.  Sky is a vessel for clouds. A sauce coats a spoon.  Paper soaks up ink. And above all, the hand open contains everything.