A mountain anticipates a full moon

knows how to respect; how to celebrate her.  A mountain has ample experience in managing a full moon's luster,  bravado.  But a branch; how does she welcome the moon? How does she learn that the moon is also laser-sharp insightful?  How does a branch manage without snapping?

How does a recipe withstand spontaneous collaboration?

How does a poem willingly invite editing?

How does sadness learn to be?

Reflection: Light is life's collage

of sacred pattern.
Remember, tree's are sacred
and in their patterns, visually sacred.
A cup holds more than the eye sees.  It holds light & dark.
Paper holds every word uttered.  Or soon to be.  Imagine that!
And a well-loved spoon is an instrument of Guanyin.  Because?
Because she is ready to nourish us.

Chartreuse

Broccolo Romanesco.  Chartreuse & fracal.  What a combination.  Mini-kingdoms.  Haiku on a stalk. Break about the Romanesco and roast with garlic & olive oil & smoked paprika.  Unexpected and perfect.  Indeed like a haiku.

A window never fails to edit

yet sometimes fails at protecting a butterfly.
Actually, it's light which edits.  Ask any poem.
Ask a candle how it sweetens and/or makes savory
a meal.

That bug on your head is fetching.

A buggy scarf.  Why not?  No bug is ordinary and this one is pure magic with a tad of well-meaning mayhem.  Conforms to all head shapes and attitudes.  Keeps you warm.  Keeps you dry.  Keeps you creative.  Speaking of creative, when was the last time your poems gave bugs their due.  In the kitchen, what bugs you most?  

Out front and on the sides

January -- yet Northern California flings open the windows to Spring.  To be exact:  Amaryllidaceae.  Embodied as narcissus aka daffodils and jonquil. Cheery out front and lining the sides of the road.  A mini welcoming committee.

What is it about yellow that gladdens.  Which words are gladden words in a poem?   We cooks know lemon brightens a dish and makes a slim knife cut sing.

Go outside;  look down.  Leaf the knife inside.

When you have no name for the ingredient

but you know it's soup time.  When you don't have the exact word (it isn't on the tip of your tongue), but the poem is front of you -- waiting.  Soup's on.  Poem's on.  Unnamed ingredients and elusive words -- unite.

Seek practical unruliness

Swathed in white needles and yet like chalk, like gauze.  Approach with caution.  The same is said of a tender egg or sonnet.  By the way, why is it, few are scared off by small rocks?

A bouquet always talks to itself

I'm unsure why most folks don't know this fact so quickly & modestly observed.  Just look deeply into each bloom, each leaf and the container containing them.  It's akin to savoring a menu.  It's right there looking into the gestures on a page.  Preferably made by ink or lead.  The state of blooming is a seasonal birthright.

Every window brings memory to a room

Especially if there's a bed.
Especially if there's a table.
Especially if there's a pen.
Especially if there's been a cat on that bed.

Gorgeously surreal

that was a week ago.  Imagine now with fog cover & time colluding to paint this succulent garden even more vibrant.  More fanciful.  Yup, fog & time as co-editors.  Who are the co-editors of a meal?  Who, the collaborators on a poem?

After the unexpected more of the unexpected

The morning begins in fog.  When it lifts, a single bearded iris appears.  The plant has several buds; that's a promise soil will keep.  Weeks from Spring.  She's a lavender beauty.  The unexpected has given me a taste for subtle pepper.  I taste for words which hint & woo.