Wednesday, June 15, 2016


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?

1 comment: