Slowly, slowly

a book
is turning
itself
into
flower

Layer upon layer

and only the surface is seen.  Dazzling rays & haze commingle.  Behind every ray, there is a tree. Behind every tree, a story looms.  The stars are grateful for your admiration.  And gratitude is the impetus for any meal shared, for any poem prompted by a friend.

Is it seeing or feeling

that brings the narrative whether it's a meal or a line of poetry?  I don't know but this is tickling my imagination and palette.  And, yes, palate.

What if

there are two centers and each whole & complete?  How does that change the next sentence you will write?  The next, you will read?  How does it change the taste of the next and probably last fig you will eat for many, many months?  There is marvel and there is sadness in the cosmos.

Sometimes the novel is outside the book

Look up.
Tell me that isn't a confluence of words?  
Now tell me, what's for lunch?

Eucalyptus celebrating morning sun

Yes, this is eucalyptus bathed in morning sun.  What a glow. Or perhaps it's the buzz of insects unseen but present.  Does it matter?  What does matter?  Simple seeing.  Simple cooking.  Simple writing.  Simple, yes.

Who doesn't move toward the light

Moving at such speed, we would fall over if we were aware of the influence on us.  But we do our balance/unbalance act of walking until we do reach a match, a lamppost, a cheap lighter.  And why is this talking to me this morning?  Because the light is dramatically beautiful and the shaggy eucalyptus are glowing.  It's time for tomatoes & arugula.  Time to hear a friend read her poems.