A forest knows itself as a dancing spirit

The deeply vegetal is a close kin of the dark. Except at its center -- where the dancing spirit haunts.  You feel as vibration, as music.  When the body dances, what does the mouth taste?  How many words in a poem make a meal?  How many chairs fit the table?

It's not only the sky which tethers stars

Soil and a fence collaborate to tether this profusion of star jasmine.  Such a heady fragrance; it dizzies the nose.  What's the equivalent in food?  In poems, fragrance can be dicey.  A touch goes a long way.

Weeds are tenacious friends

Specifically, purslane.  Hearty.  That omega-rich weed.  Crunchy and vegetal.  Just what a poem aspires to be.

The lost art of assembling a fan

from your imagination.
Will there be breeze?
A plate of purple
edibles?
One line
masquerading
as title?
Will it siren
bees & hummingbirds?

When a flower encounters its reflection

Does it see the seeds of its parents?
Or its children?  Or the fire
of being alive?
The same can be said of the flower
of the fig which I ate this morning.
The poem that needs writing today --
what is it reflecting
upon?

The dark makes the most of language

as do dreams.
A simple line goes a long way in the dark
and in a poem, line breaks curve;
the brakes, disassembled.  
There is no thought
of summery salads --
haphazard & giddy
with color.
Perhaps, simply said,
this is
crow-talk.

Because a friend gave me a gift

of farm-fresh eggs,

I tasted the sun. 

Then, I witnessed the sun turn into a breakfast star.

And should you ask, bacon is its own galaxy.  

Thanks, Bev.  

There is a spiral to everything

which greens:
herbs
vegetables
fruits
poems
even
lists.

Do you know the first words uttered by Spring's red onions?

Roast me with balsamic.  Of course.  What a bending of stalks.  How their skin shines.  Shimmers.  Just what a poems is seeking -- a shiny skin and just the right touch of vinegar.

When wind sirens

water pays attention.  Moves off-center into a splash-orbit where poems form.  Listen, centrifugal force is laughing.  And out-of-sight, the Fuyu persimmons are thinking of ripening. There is joy in persimmons.  There is wetness to a poem.

If I were a bee

this would be my breakfast.
If I were a poem
waiting to be written
here's the notebook
I'd select.
If I were a honey
waiting to be made,
here's were I would find
the perfect pollen.

The desiccated is alive

Can you hear that yellow bird singing to roses, wooing them to life?  Can you see the roses beckoning words to bloom?

Can you see the roses seeing themselves as an abstract?

Now, picture a salad.  Perhaps, with tomatoes and fava beens, mint, roasted yellow & orange peppers, feta.  And, of course, arugula.  A mountain of arugula. Enough arugula to inspire a haiku. Imagine.

desiccated roses seeing themselves -- abstractly