Find the brush, find the spoon

and the pen will follow.  I'm thinking how an out-take can be a delicious leftover.

Prompted by exuberance

Yes, flowers are exuberant though some strident as a succulent. They keep their juiciness inside.

Which foods are exuberant?  Tomatoes and, of course, figs. Asparagus, little as is the dour eggplant until cooked to a beguiling creaminess.

Now, I'm thinking of the flight patterns of dragonflies and the practice of writing a poem a day.

What is this?

A hint:  neither jewelry nor wall hanging.
How many times have you said, "What IS this?"
How many times did an answer appear as a strike of lightning?
How often did the answer come via the slow-cooking crockpot?
How often did one word ignite another?  Was thirst quenched?

Welcoming balance

Imagine a few pebbles on a ledge balancing an ocean.

See the stone heart join those pebbles to welcome cheese.

Now, imagine how paper -- even digital -- welcomes words.

Stumbling upon a heart

Walking is the best way to stumble upon (but not over) a green heart.  Happy hearts are known to keep the company of smiling faces.  And, yes, rocks are sentient.  Is the poem in the rock or in the mulch?  This for sure -- a banquet for the tiniest among the sentients.

Art of the mouth

palette & palate

the roof of the mouth is a painter of cultural tastes

color is the spoon creating a poem 

what's for lunch?

Why?

Why are some mornings more abstract?  Why, some evenings?
Poems can be abstract, too.
Which are among the most abstract food?  And why?
Is light the abstraction in a line of poetry?

No this is not an alligator bark juniper

Simply the sawed off mouth of a magnificent oak.  Someone fed it acorns in the crevice of its smile. Wish I could do that with my next poem.  Wish I could imbed treasures in my next tomato dish.

Delicious sameness

Sometimes it's the center.  Sometimes, it's the scalloped edges.
Sometimes, the middle feathering.  Same with food.  Same with a poem.

Mouths & draught

Every tree has at least one mouth and a dream of water. True of every sentient being.  True of words.  In draught, all mouths are thirsty.

Figs, pens & dreams

Figs are stars
in a bowl's dream.

Does a pen dream
of paper?

Does my mouth dream
of figs & poems?

Knotweed

This is an elegy for our local hardware store which burned last month.  I purchased this red sorrel over a year ago from that community resource.   The sorrel is thriving. The plant likes its place on the balcony.  Just the right amount of sun and daily misting.   I imagine it likes the company of oregano, too.

Tart and bright.  A bit lemony.  If you don't like the taste or sorrel, oh well, you can love the names of its kin -- rhubarb, buckwheat, wild docks, rau rum and, of course, knotweed.

Language and food are perfect spoon-sisters.