Sometimes you just go with it

especially if it's spiraling.  Or as a cook might add, spiralizing.  Or a poet watching words acting like tide pools.  Notice the blue eye -- that's the clue.

Spring negotiating with green

Soon Spring's exuberance will be no match for Summer.  Summer will be no match for Fall.  You get the idea where this progression is progressing.  However, the present is no match for time's shenanigans.  Just ask a baker about the necessity of breaking eggs.  Ask paper about its love of haiku.

When the branches of these trees, redden

I am ready to look for spirals in everything straight.  I am ready for the alchemy of Spring, of cooking, of words.  Simply this.

Eventually a name will surface

Until the naming occurs, let's say these are chair legs twisted into an unsuspecting narrative which looks like it has a white pleated collar at its core.  The story could go in many directions. What you had for dinner probably won't make the final cut.  Nor the apple you cored to pare with cheese. Neither will your last haiku.  That's to be expected.

Much like flowers, shadows have their growing season

Here are two little known facts about shadows:  one, they are capable of blooming; two, they are ubiquitous as wildflowers.  Much like carrots are prevalent in kitchens; pens on a poet's desk.  

Why do drains fascinate?

Something alchemical?
Something definitive?
Something about here today, gone tomorrow?
Something about reflection?
Something about concave and convex?
Now, consider the above without the question marks.  Have you?
And should you ask, why is there nothing about food, nor poetry?
There is.  Simply consider the concave and convex.

Unexpected

to come across such a wondrous patch.  Luscious clumps of daffodils.  It feels like a planned memorial.  Few other wonders blooming at this time.  Sacred.  Like a meal shared with a stranger. Like a stranger being touched by one of your poems.  Wondrous, indeed.  Hopeful, too.