eyes through glasses. Now, I'm thinking slots in a spoon. Pasta water. I'm thinking how petite poems are not bows as much as petals. I'm thinking that a favorite ceramic plate can curve with the best of light. Yup. I'm thinking.
The cut tree trunk oozes -- liquid reflection. And the red? A marker for something now forgotten or made useless. Perhaps, a punctuation mark. Why now am I thinking of the liquid from cooked pasta flowing down the kitchen drain? Or all the words that bled off a page all these years? Where do these written gestures end up?
Don't know but the unable-to-name intrigues pushes me toward a center -- familiar & unfamiliar. Both ancient & contemporary. Like words, colors are doors & windows. What am I opening? What, closing? In which direction will the wind blow?
which makes me think of the gap between party & celebration. Between food & dinner. And yes pink food -- beets in yogurt for sure. Watermelon & watermelon radishes. OK, OK, canes. By the way, when does a list burst forth as a poem.
going or coming. What weather will be encountered. Whether or not it rains, determines the soup likely to be made. The word "likely" is a technical weather-word. Like "perhaps" in a poem. Yes.
Yes, sometimes images reappear & latch themselves to different words. It happens.
but itself. A life described in a children's picture book -- sans language. But then, color is a language. Much as cooking. Of course, writing. especially a petite poem, is playing with color fields, for sure.
is never truly abstract at least not for long. Embodied, sensual. seasonal. Lamenting figs, I slice a persimmon and the mouth reconnects with pleasure almost forgetting the Early Girl tomatoes have
fled. Slipped from memory as a line of poetry unwritten.
or perhaps dissolving. Perspective is all. But perhaps we can agree on the beauty of the dramatic even when it comes to a pinch of red pepper flake or when we decide whether to add or remove a preposition to a line of poetry. Forming and dissolving: principles of editing. Principles of cooking.
of peek-a-boo? What a curious phrase, that. Or flowered sheets? Or especially cats? Cats are poems waiting to pounce upon the imaginary. Cats lose themselves so quickly to sleep -- that space & time of imagination so deliciously non sequitur in nature. Like a yummy meal forming from left-overs.
This often occurs when a state of being prevails. It's akin to that need to cook or clean the counter.
The urge to straighten papers, pursue the bookshelf to say "hi" to old & new friends. Perhaps, this is the family album & one day after the day of gathering, you remember. You remember. All the names like petite poems are echoing in your ear. A good feeling. Comforting as the taste of turkey.