Absence is full of potential. And a repository of history.
Think of a blank page in a journal. Imagine your hands reaching for a book and turning to the first page. Imagine re-checking a favorite recipe; perhaps just to confirm the temperature. Consider the empty pan before you make a favorite frittata. Feel your hand reaching for the phone to call a friend.
Beside, you missed the drama -- a hummingbird sped by sip at the
salvia (off camera). By 2PM there will be a tea-drinker in the garden.
a platter of cherry tomatoes in a white bowl waiting for community. Reminds me.... Reminds me of a moon waiting for us to adore. Reminds me of an innocent blank page of a journal awaiting the word-journey. All set in motion by intention. And association. Aren't cherry tomatoes instances of petite lusciousness?
Something so still as to be called a still life transforms shell into bone, dried pomegranate into a raspberry-center, a slab of marble into forest and sea, and a glass perfumer into all the light necessary to siren. Or perhaps this quartet coalesced as a bone/shell star. Now consider, a poem as a still life accepting the quiet and/or awaiting transformation. And what is cooking if it isn't transformational?
Perhaps a tree really wants roses to be its fruits.
Perhaps roses truly want to be hats for trees.
And what does perhaps want? By the way, is that "wish" or "lack?"
And, yes, the water is a mirage. Most poems are like that, too.
Now consider the elusive artichoke. Yup, roses grow on trees;
if a poem were a vegetable, it would be an artichoke.
Homage to C.D. Wright. Reading: The Poet, the Lion, Talking Pictures, El Farolito, a Wedding in St. Roch, the Big Box Store, the Warp in the Mirror, Spring, Midnights, Fire & All. In addition to being an image-bending activity, reading a book is never singular. These notes in the first photo of who else to read because I'm reading C.D. Wright.
A book and a garden have this in common: neither is ever singular.