Why do we say a garden blooms

when really it explodes?  Just as a fresh tomato or berry implodes in a mouth.  From familiar words, a poem explodes with tastes & textures.  And always, light.  

Definitely flutes

by day; pens at night

stitching in the folds.   

Who said there is only 

one center?  Or a house

is sustainable by a single

spoon?

Tinted

and spun.  Spun?  Is that what happens when a meal is pleasantly plated?  And what of a poem? Is there an app to spin words?  As a matter of fact, there is.
Check-out Wordle.  wordle.net

Presenting fava beans

Food, especially just picked from the garden, is like a poem.  Your initials all over it.  Whose initials
on the vintage glass plate?  My Mom's.

Choosing the instrument to create

Whether pen, brush, musical instrument or spoon what we choose to create with influences what we create.  Or perhaps, simple and necessary as the dialogue of hoe and weed.   By the way, can't you hear an oboe in the above image?

Desiccated

All about perspective, isn't it?
Here's how I see desiccated roses --

and roses see themselves, seeing me:

I think the same may be said of spent carrots.  How about a poem?  How does the poem I wrote this morning, "Abandoned" see itself, seeing me?  Carrots most likely, forthcoming.

Appearances

Yes, beautiful & luscious.  But not fragile as she might appear.  Hardy.  Prolific.  The alstroemeria.   Some foods are like this, too.  Dainty red raspberries pack a wallop of taste.  Now, consider the haiku -- both the poem & the cat (see May 22, 2016 post).  Hardy & beautiful.

above photo app-enhanced, Circular

When is there too little to harvest?

My roommate and I planned fava beans to put nitrogen back into the soil.  One bean took a liking to it's particular spot in the backyard.  Now, we have 3 fava beans all that glorious fava bean green. The garden is singing a little louder for this.  Add this to my to-do list:  write a minimalist epic to the fava bean.

Alas, lunch didn't include fava beans but the garden's mint -- minty.

Light is an envelope

a gateway to the essential.  For instance, blue squares on green are nothing less, nothing more than a poem coalescing or a meal in the mouth of imagination.  With back facing light, the cat invents the perfect box.

Colors of the inside voice

Make no mistake; flowers have inside voices.  Consider, the poppy.  Here's one to get you started:

And here's my point.  Below is what the poppy hears when its inside voice sings to the garden.

Now, I'm trying to picture the inside voice of the avocado I enjoyed for breakfast.  Or the inside voice of the poem I wrote this morning about an
ataulfo.

Billet-doux: the language of hands

conveys
what
soil
wishes
what
light
kisses
I'm
wishing
spirals
of
zucchini
for
lunch
FYI
ate
a poem
for
breakfast

Why does a spiral preen?

I'm thinking of birds; how they preen.  How wind, just lusts to be a spiral, and spiral all winged-ones upwards.  And onward. Their itinerary, never casual nor complacent.

I'm thinking of how changing light fashions a haiku.

How a spoon spiraling, fashioned last night's chicken-lemon-curry soup.  How that spoon then was the proper tool to serve.

For sure, a spiral preens the inward and the outward.