Friday, September 26, 2014


From dirt & the confluence of weather & hope comes what feeds us.  I don't know how I know this (perhaps mostly from feeling) that it is the combination of dirt, weather, hope, and our bodies which produce poems of the ripe.  As you might imagine, I'm eating a persimmon (fuyu, of course) as I write this.  And I am imagining.  Later, I shall walk.

1 comment:

  1. One painting done a long time ago was based on a Native American image of a ceremonial dance. I gave it to a friend who was a massage therapist to hang in her studio. After a few months, she gave it back saying it was too intense for her and her clients. I had no idea it would engage a viewer in that way; the colors and images were so muted. I moved a few times after that, carrying it around all rolled up. I don't know where that painting went. All I have is a picture of the painting, the picture based on another picture, at least once removed from the original.

    "Beyond the horizon some figures are in pursuit of each other; a circle is being closed again and again."