The answer is just like a blink poem. None.
Always potted though.
On a usual walking route in San Francisco, I unexpectedly spot a poinsettia bush. Or is it a tree? That's like trying to discern the difference between a hearty soup & a stew. Perhaps, discerning prose poetry & a poem.
as in giving. At Ann's in Walnut Creek for Thanksgiving and she's assembled nifty appetizers. I thank her for the celery stalks stuffed with blue cheese. I'm enjoying the small dish of cashews, too. She reminds me and in a flood of gratitude I remember I told Ann as a child holiday meals for me included stuffed celery with blue cheese & nut cups. I thought life quite splendid. And a splendid day today is. The leaves hung around in agreement. Later there will be words on the page.
Did you show up for the page?
Were you late for dinner?
I know the tastes of an erratic meal.
But how do you define erratic poem?
FYI: I'm reading Kay Ryan's
Erratic Facts and you should be,
too. Should you ask, there will be
brown-rice stuffed turban squash
tonight. Also, the moon is 2 days short
of full. Thus, the auspicious
and the erratic intersect.
These the colors & these the shapes I wish for every meal. For every poem. A meal and a poem share one thing -- a palette. Nature is never unsure of its canvas. Never untruthful. Although a trick of the eye is always welcomed.
And breakfast, you ask? Toasted walnut bread with a drizzle of olive oil and abundant slices of Fuyu persimmons. Why this abundance? Getting ready to celebrate my friend Kim's birthday.
Weather is serious and San Francisco takes fog to its bosom. Nestled as a cat for some serious snoozing. Yet our fog (yes, it's personal) comes in a sweep and rarely stays through two meals. Our fog at its most lengthy is a sonnet. Never an epic. What's for dinner? Something warm & fragrant to sweep away the chill. Perhaps, roasted eggplant, tomatoes, Parmesan, garlic. Crustless.
Sometimes the sign says it all. A recipe for wonder as I again wander San Francisco's Botanical Gardens. And later wonder how to combine a couple of vegetables/fruits with goat cheese on a thin crust of pizza. When sun sets, what poem might wander unto a page left open for wonder?
Edible? You go first.
Senna from SF Botanical Gardens.
November in San Francisco.
A picnic lunch -- brie, crusty fragrant bread, persimmon & a few cherry tomatoes. Quite the feast.
More than a haiku; perhaps, less than a sonnet. An epic of taste & sight.
or close up. Easy to miss. But once seen! Yes, this is a flowering dahlia tree. Dahlia being San Francisco's official flower. Brief blooming season. Like cranberry beans -- brief and beautifully
hued. And remember San Francisco's Botantical Garden is the finest farmers markets for blooms, for words, and the eyes' appetite. Bon appetite! A colorful golden beet pizza for dinner, should you ask.
Solid as a squash, as a petite pumpkin. What could be more so?
Not if the cat is involved. Yes ever the seemingly stationary, moves.
Or is it the cat who moves?
Why contemplating physics at work,
work to be done in the kitchen.
Cut, seed, slice one of these beauties to the left. Yes, toast the seeds. Roast the slices with a drizzle of olive oil. No matter what anyone has told you, the skins -- once roasted -- are delicious. And the flesh, divine. Ask any poem waiting for a taste.
Such a brief bloom. Just the time it took to savor morning tea. The bloom spent, except in memory. This is the second and looks like the last of the cactus' blooms. What joy to witness. I'm thinking of all the sweet & savory bits to life that are brief. Many, many. As many as words in many brief poems. Or a table laden with tapas.
Meanwhile, in another room, haiku the beloved cat is sunning himself on the window sill behind the fruiting prickly pear. The window offers back his sweet face to me.
Reflections are brief gifts. Time loves the circular.
My new morning tea bar with an exquisite view. Where only loose-leaf tea is brewed. Where pen & glasses are full of reflection. Just what pages love to absorb. Of course, plates love to reflect food's flavors & colors. Textures, too. Poems are no different. They love an exquisite view and a cup of freshly brewed loose-leaf tea. And the open road of pages. Sun or moon a plus.
Been waiting many, many days for her to open. I thought the full moon might be the key. Perhaps, the moon & the sparse rain today (last night?) knew the combination by heart. Now, she's closed. Not withered. So perhaps tonight again she unfolds. I'm reminded of poems being read to an audience and how it is an opening. An unfolding. A good meal accomplishes the same as it opens up conversation.
Another reason to walk to my local library. This vibrant & beautiful mural (La Flor de La Vida) sponored by the freetrade clothing shop, The Frida's Closet (25th above Bartlett). Painted this year by Twin Walks Mural Company (Marina Perez-Wong & Elaine Chu). Two things I didn't know. 1. The dalhia is the national flower of Mexico (also the official San Francisco city flower). 2. Chu's cat is named Drew. Libraries, art, walking, cooking are inseparable. What's for dinner? Roasted pumpkin with feta, black olives, roasted tomatoes, and string beans. La vida is sweet. And which book borrowed? Kay Ryan's latest, Erratic Facts. Yup, life is sweet & savory.
pineapple. Smitten by hummingbirds & words pink.
Why don't I cook much with sage?
Why don't I eat much pineapple?
Why don't I wear much pink?
I have never written a word in pink ink.
Ah! but this pineapple sage may change all that behavior.
Oh really! Well, Arbutus unedo -- strawberry tree. In the manzanita family. White flowers, bumpy red and yellow fruit. It is said the fruit is edible, though an unusual texture. I've never reached high enough to try a taste. A nectar source for the California Dogface butterfly & the Monarch, too.
DREAMS ARE The SOURCE Of NECTAR
Her dream lifted her to where the sky is full of strawberries. Tasting just one, she awoke as a Monarch butterfly.