Saturday, November 21, 2015


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.

1 comment:

  1. Constellations 8/10

    All the smiles of the matinee idol hide his secret life
    his hidden despair

    Heat's on, cars pass, the sweep of morning
    pea soup, fresh salads, white wine

    the room contained them

    cp 467