Friday, September 26, 2014


My aunt Kit for whom I am nick-named gave me a set of pencils with my name engraved.  This gift is now 60 years in memory.  This is why I write.

A few years back, friend Susan gave me a set of pencils wrapped in paper imprinted with pomegrantes.  This is the conversation I continue to blog.  This is why the two of us enjoy a martini.

Today I will enjoy my 4th persimmon in two days as I contemplate peeling the small but mightly pomegranate in the fruit bowl.


  1. Haven't had a persimmon yet this season. But on my walk to work I pass a persimmon tree, the hachiya kind, the one you let get all squishy before you eat. I've stepped over a couple unripe fruits on the sidewalk which were obviously sampled by squirrels.

  2. Persimmons on a plate, a good idea for a drawing. And I just found this, part of a poem written before a martini...before a conversation

    For at dawn she will find consolation
    In the slightest traces and faintest signs
    bells perhaps of those who worship
    knees folded, hands closed
    running only in their minds, their souls
    running as if going somewhere terribly warm

    as if terribly warm the beach in the afternoon wants them
    she cannot fathom a territory without kneeling
    and detesting absence she wills herself across the continent
    of her entire history, a mere ripple in the silver ice...

    from Footsteps, Easter 2010