Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Does it see the seeds of its parents?
Or its children? Or the fire
of being alive?
The same can be said of the flower
of the fig which I ate this morning.
The poem that needs writing today --
what is it reflecting
as do dreams.
A simple line goes a long way in the dark
and in a poem, line breaks curve;
the brakes, disassembled.
There is no thought
of summery salads --
haphazard & giddy
Perhaps, simply said,
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Roast me with balsamic. Of course. What a bending of stalks. How their skin shines. Shimmers. Just what a poems is seeking -- a shiny skin and just the right touch of vinegar.