Saturday, August 22, 2015


What you can't touch is super-tangible.  Think of dreams, shadows, reflections.  What light & memory make of our landscapes.  A memory of the perfectly ripe:   fruit or just-picked ear of corn.  All worth hearing; all worth tasting.  Poems are like this, too.  Tangible -- with the weight of pen & paper and ethereal as the dance of light & memory.

Just ate 2 perfectly ripe small pluots. Life is sweet, I recall.

1 comment:

  1. My father is walking back and forth across the dimly lit studio, his head bowed, his hands in his pockets. He has been out there since he got home from work.

    We are both sitting at the bar now. Others from the office have been invited to join us. His best friend's new wife walks in and kisses her husband. A sad look crosses my father's face. " Shall we go in?" he says.