But of course...

jellyfish.  

Delicate danger.  

Seemingly effortless undulations.  

Cloud-like.  

And all which sweeps into can become food.  

Being open to the environment -- that's what a poem is about.  

What we look through to see out the other side

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.

Submerged

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?

What is this?

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?  

A party of some sort

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.

Hard to tell whether

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.

This reminds me of nothing

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.

Language of winged ones

Or the music of Satie.
Or both.
A sound salad
of the most yummy.
For the hungriest
of ears.

Memory

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.

Forming

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.

Who doesn't love a spirited game

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.

Sometimes the name comes later

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.