Every tree has at least one mouth and a dream of water. True of every sentient being. True of words. In draught, all mouths are thirsty.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Tart and bright. A bit lemony. If you don't like the taste or sorrel, oh well, you can love the names of its kin -- rhubarb, buckwheat, wild docks, rau rum and, of course, knotweed.
Language and food are perfect spoon-sisters.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Shadows are unpredictable brushes. Or maybe shadows adhere to the properties of ink-paintings. Shadows are spoons to a cook. The ingredients stand-alone; it's the combining that produces the
meal. Words are like that to a poem. And sometimes the space between words in a line says it all.
P.S. The table is the canvas for a shared meal.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Neither is childhood. My childhood brims with memories of the backyard. I learned early-on that wild roses are delicate-looking but hardy and prolific. Later I learned there's far less than 6 degrees of separation between a flower and a weed. Alas, there wasn't a bench in my childhood backyard. Life isn't perfect; though childhood is a layering of textures surprisingly hardy, robust & delicate. Quite the mix. Just what I aim for in a meal. And a poem.