Shadow painting

Shadows are unpredictable brushes.  Or maybe shadows adhere to the properties of ink-paintings. Shadows are spoons to a cook.  The ingredients stand-alone;  it's the combining that produces the
meal.  Words are like that to a poem.  And sometimes the space between words in a line says it all.
P.S.  The table is the canvas for a shared meal.

Melting

Ice.  Time.
And the opposite of melting? Rising.  And love is on the rise.

Where does the line of a poem melt?  Where does it rise?  The eye of a poem is the mouth.

White table

A white table has much to say to blue.  To a blue vase.  To blue agapanthus.  To evening.  What will the poem say to this dance of color.  Which foods are blue by color & emotion?  I hear Ella F. Do you?

A rose isn't delicate

Neither is childhood.  My childhood brims with memories of the backyard.  I learned early-on that wild roses are delicate-looking but hardy and prolific.  Later I learned there's far less than 6 degrees of separation between a flower and a weed.  Alas, there wasn't a bench in my childhood backyard.  Life isn't perfect; though childhood is a layering of textures surprisingly hardy, robust & delicate.  Quite the mix.  Just what I aim for in a meal.  And a poem.

Last line

Here's a photo of a last line of a poem that really bursts from the page.  Really.

Really not much different than the exuberance of a perfectly ripe cherry tomato encountering the mouth.

The dream is of two minds

The same can be said of a meal.  Of a poem.  In an instant, fusion can occur.  Fusion cuisine.  Fusion poetry.  The lyric dream.  The narrative soup.  Dream, poem, soup -- the perfect weight of a container.

The room I love most in my house

is the arboretum.  OK, it's an extension of my home.  A way-across-town extension of my house.  An emotional extension.  A trove of spectacular with unexpected treasures.  Just think of the arboretum as an alphabet in search of a poem.  Or the spoon awaiting the soup.

Not done with that tomato

From the previous post, here's that tomato again through the Circular-app.  Tomato as flower.  Tomato requesting the presence of basil and mozzarella.  Poem waiting for a knife to slice and a spoon to dress.  The mouth is onboard.

Jersey

Jersey?  Yes, Jersey as in Jersey tomatoes.  Perhaps if you're not from NJ, you don't know the significance.  So, Jersey is the Garden State and could be on the merits alone of its beefsteak tomatoes.  Slice into them, eat plainly and you grasp the finest summer offers.  

Yes, this one above came with the "skin defect."  Isn't she beautiful.   Below, she's been "circular-ized" -- that fun app for photos.

Fruit which is circular and slightly bulbous has kinship with poetry.  Some things you just know.  You don't know why or how, but you know you know.

Just here

The day

grainy 

as mustard

with no particulars

to say where 

we are

nor been.

Just here

wherever

here is

wherever

the empty

page finds

a familiar

pen or spoon

a receptive
bowl

The origin of a spoon

Drop by drop
drip by drip.

Was the origin
of the spoon
a petal?

If you disagree
and say the origin
of the spoon
is our hand
you're be right
but please note
the origin
of the hand
is petal.

So, what stirs soup --
hand or petal?

Spectacular spines

A straight spine is a noble act.  Although sometimes a spiral of worlds is just what is needed.  Like that swirl of mango puree in a cold raspberry soup.  That taste easy to grasp.  Remember this taste when words become elusive.