Celestial

Please don't forget the common objects we love & celebrate
are no longer common.  They are celestial.  Of course, it's obvious
the above is the celestial being of the Fuyu persimmon.
But you knew that.

How is that done?  Ask any seed?  Ask a plate (especially glass).
What is unknown is the shape, texture and color of the next poem.
I plan on slicing a persimmon to welcome inspiration.

Faces

Faces are not restricted to people, animals, birds, fish.  Flowers have faces.  Food, too.  Especially, pies.  Berry pies, in particular.

Blueberry & peach pie by Milton

 And yes, you can read faces in tea leaves and in fallen leaves.

Where's the poem you ask?  Look under the third leaf on the lower right corner.

Hopeful

and grateful.

The space that once showcased the LGBT mural of love
now boarded over. Not a clean, clear canvas.  A board.  Sad.  Very.
And below the opposite -- a close-to full moon illuminating
San Francisco.

Grateful for memory.  Hopeful the mural will be re-created.
Grateful for each turn of the moon. Grateful for last night's
Thanksgiving dinner with friends.

Hopeful for the next poem to appear.

Thanks

as in giving.  At Ann's in Walnut Creek for Thanksgiving and she's assembled nifty appetizers.  I thank her for the celery stalks stuffed with blue cheese.  I'm enjoying the small dish of cashews, too.  She reminds me and in a flood of gratitude I remember I told Ann as a child holiday meals for me included stuffed celery with blue cheese & nut cups.  I thought life quite splendid.  And a splendid day today is.  The leaves hung around in agreement.  Later there will be words on the page.

Erratic

Did you show up for the page?
Were you late for dinner?
I know the tastes of an erratic meal.
But how do you define erratic poem?
FYI:  I'm reading Kay Ryan's
Erratic Facts and you should be,
too.  Should you ask, there will be
brown-rice stuffed turban squash
tonight.  Also, the moon is 2 days short
of full.  Thus, the auspicious
and the erratic intersect.  

Fiction

These the colors & these the shapes I wish for every meal.  For every poem.  A meal and a poem share one thing -- a palette.  Nature is never unsure of its canvas.  Never untruthful.  Although a trick of the eye is always welcomed.

And breakfast, you ask?  Toasted walnut bread with a drizzle of olive oil and abundant slices of Fuyu persimmons.  Why this abundance?  Getting ready to celebrate my friend Kim's birthday.

Sweeping

Weather is serious and San Francisco takes fog to its bosom.  Nestled as a cat for some serious snoozing. Yet our fog (yes, it's personal) comes in a sweep and rarely stays through two meals. Our fog at its most lengthy is a sonnet.  Never an epic.  What's for dinner?  Something warm & fragrant to sweep away the chill.  Perhaps, roasted eggplant, tomatoes, Parmesan, garlic. Crustless.

Grandifolia

Sometimes the sign says it all.  A recipe for wonder as I again wander San Francisco's Botanical Gardens.  And later wonder how to combine a couple of vegetables/fruits with goat cheese on a thin crust of pizza.  When sun sets, what poem might wander unto a page left open for wonder?

String beans

Edible?  You go first.
Senna from SF Botanical Gardens.
November in San Francisco.
A picnic lunch -- brie, crusty fragrant bread, persimmon & a few cherry tomatoes.  Quite the feast.
More than a haiku; perhaps, less than a sonnet.  An epic of taste & sight.

High up

or close up.  Easy to miss.  But once seen!  Yes, this is a flowering dahlia tree.  Dahlia being San Francisco's official flower.  Brief blooming season.  Like cranberry beans -- brief and beautifully
hued.  And remember San Francisco's Botantical Garden is the finest farmers markets for blooms, for words, and the eyes' appetite.  Bon appetite!  A colorful golden beet pizza for dinner, should you ask.

Solid

Solid as a squash, as a petite pumpkin.  What could be more so?

Not if the cat is involved.  Yes ever the seemingly stationary, moves.

Or is it the cat who moves?

Why contemplating physics at work,
work to be done in the kitchen.

Cut, seed, slice one of these beauties to the left.  Yes, toast the seeds.  Roast the slices with a drizzle of olive oil.  No matter what anyone has told you, the skins -- once roasted -- are delicious.  And the flesh, divine.  Ask any poem waiting for a taste.

Brevity

Such a brief bloom.  Just the time it took to savor morning tea.  The bloom spent, except in memory. This is the second and looks like the last of the cactus' blooms.  What joy to witness.  I'm thinking of all the sweet & savory bits to life that are brief. Many, many.  As many as words in many brief poems.  Or a table laden with tapas.

Meanwhile, in another room, haiku the beloved cat is sunning himself on the window sill behind the fruiting prickly pear. The window offers back his sweet face to me.

Reflections are brief gifts.  Time loves the circular.