Spokes

A moment of time when its spokes are still.

When I'm silent, what moves within me?

When a tomato is being picked, what is it's center saying to the departing vine?

What does a blue umbrella think of a blue sky?  Or of wind rearranging leaves on the closest tree?

And will the next poem begin with heirloom tomatoes and a blue umbrella?  Wind, caught in time's spokes?

How does a bird see

what I'm seeing?
When she sings, does melody or lyric carry the song?
What meal does that bird imagine so close to the Day of All Souls.

The simple

is tricky.  Is hard.  Is soft.  Reminds you of that dream of petite trees, huge pinecones and poems in pockets. Reminds you of a frozen spinach dip from the 70's.

Blender

Time is a powerful blender.  Almost as powerful as dreaming. Imagines and words come to the foreground or blend into the background.  Much like a soup and the blending of tastes.

The umbrella

dreams of rain while I dream of persimmons.  While I dream of persimmons, snippets of words hang on crystal branches.  Words can submerge, can shatter.  Or words can hang and catch whatever time brings.

The persimmon contemplates color

and that which is contemplated
becomes real. Imagine a plate of colors.  Think palette.  Think palate.
All this, while eating a persimmon.

Continuous

is the old, is the new.  The waning, waxing.  Heirloom tomatoes from the farmers markets are certainly waning.  New growth on the pothos, waxing.  Such greening -- an intimacy like our California hills after the first rain. The living with a continuous thirst for water.

The eye of fall

I haven't been living in a Fall environment for decades.  Just 21 miles north west of San Francisco and now fall is evident.

 And here's what I imagine is the eye of fall:

What food and which line of a poem capture the dramatic falling of Fall?

Sideways

Wonder comes at you in any direction.
Toasted bagel with goat cheese, pepper & persimmon is perhaps a bit of a sideways breakfast.
Later a truly sideways poem written for a friend.

Undeniable

are the seasons and geography determines the number.  Here in the Bay Area, Fall is unmistakable -- an uplift in the air, a switch of light, a downturn of leaves.  A time for sitting.  A time for remembering those who have fallen.  A time to celebrate the return of persimmons.  Is there such a thing as a rounded precipice?  Is so, it's undeniably Fall.

Storage

from a woodpecker's point of view.  Or shall we say, a point of necessity? Acorns are like words -- a perfect food and like paper don't fall far from its tree.  A beloved system of storing and retrieving.
Natural fodder, too.

Language is the ground we walk upon and

the written language of bird is complicated and, unlike English, highly inflected.  Like poetry, bird language is spoken inside as well as out.  With both poetry and bird language, food is actively discussed.  Debated.