Who speaks the language of tomato?

Basil, of course.  All type of basil to all type of tomato.  Go ahead, eavesdrop.  Don't stop there -- listen-in on the whole garden.  For what is a garden if not a linguistic wonder.

Meditation on inside & outside

Roasted for an hour at 425 degrees these eggplants are shrived & charred to the world.  Inside, a creamy & sublime wonder.  Simply add cropped garlic & fresh red onion.  Nothing else.  Nothing more.

If we could see the insides of our alphabet (all 26 letters) what poem would be written?  How would our speech differ?  Would I still love the word "perhaps?"

Ah, when nightshade speaks, pay attention!

Fractal sass

Heat wave in Walnut Creek and just looking at these otherworldly dahlias strutting their fractal sass makes me smile.  Cools me off.  Makes me want to eat garden tomatoes & roasted peaches & arugula & walnuts & tiger-eye figs & olive oil & pepper and, yes, a tad of salt.  Will the poem arrive as a bee sipping nectar?

Aloe tomentosa

Indeed
sometimes
words
say everything
necessary
and nothing
superficial
and say it
with a rhythm
the whole
body
or garden
or kitchen
can wrap
a tongue
around.

A banquet is over-the-top generous

from every perspective.  This is the eye of summer looking into the mirror.  Abundance is dizzy-making, isn't it.  Can one eat too many tomatoes?  Can one read/write too much poetry?  For sure, it's impossible to hug too many plants.  Remember:  drink plenty of water, get good sleep & eat your nightshades.  

Imagine a banquet of tomatoes & their friends

Where else but in paradise.  7th Annual Tomato Tasting Festival & BBQ yesterday.  Bloody Marys
& friends.  Poems to follow.

The correlation between good writing & napping

And the dream and the writing began with the same word:  tuna.  And the writing was his namesake: haiku.

Unexpected visitors

or there are no walls when it comes to neighbors. Some bouquets have their roots intact.  Some roots we eat and call them food.  Some words are staples.  And we eat these, too.

Night is a castle for the indirect

Memory & moon.  Spoon & soup.  The simply rhyme -- not too hard, not too heavy handed with pepper; on the slant like the moon's tryst with water.  

What story are you telling yourself?

Who is she
and what is her name?
Is she rising?
Is she dissolving into her ancestor's birthplace?
Which food will satisfy her?  Which poem soothe?

I don't think trees pay attention to stop signs

Though not a bad idea for humans to heed the stop sign and look up at this magnificent Golden Rain Tree.  Beguiling blossoms and arc of canopy.  Is an ode or pantoum the equivalent?  In the food world, it's definitely paella.  But each to her favorite poetic form; each to her dish.  P.S.  Please note how the Golden Rain reflects upon itself.  Quite the meditation.

Our Lady

of the Landfill.  Albany Bulb.  Last visit over 1-1/2 years ago and She is as powerful & elegant as ever.  Like a memory of the favorite family meal.  Like the first poem that startled & inspired.  An embrace to the good.  You know, She can dance, too.