Reflected gestures

The capture reads:  glass bowl on woven runner.  I like to think of each word as a prism available to both reader & writer.  Have you noticed perspective is never singular? Have you noticed the same rings true of salads?  Of friendships?  Of snowflakes? Of words in a fragment?  What glass takes in; what glass reflects.  All fragments.  All gestures.

On the nature of a fence

The golden mean:  whatever is being kept out an equal whatever is being kept in.  Who remembers the spectacular hail then cloud-rainbow yesterday? Another instance of natural drama. Also, the kitchen is a natural landscape for both drama & alchemy as is a pen etching a landscape onto paper. Whatever(s) prevail(s).

Flowers know how to pollinate memory

A bowl is a simple & complex blessing

What is wanting
to be filled?
What is wanting
to be emptied?
And who crafted
these petals
into spokes?

A window sees through a cabbage

This is not a dream although it has the feel of memory.  Perhaps, it is the vegetal which looks through the window to find something misplaced.  Nothing is lost, really.  Neither word nor spoon.

Ocean as yarn

and what tales the ocean can tell.  These are water's roots --powerful dream-agents and they go deep.  Reminds me of engaging in a meal where food & conversation commingle.  Where conversation goes deep or skips on the surface but is not trivial.  Or paper where the words shimmer, sometimes are lucid yet dreamy.

Gears

But what is this gizmo?  Sometimes, function is foremost. Sometimes not.  That conversation is at the forefront of all cuisines as well as any poem.  Perhaps, grandmother was right when she said a pen is the gizmo and your intentions are gears which make a poem spin.  Do you agree?

Tactile

and plush as space luxuriates in color & texture.   Reminds me of pomegranate seeds on a bed of spinach (with other edible goodies).  Reminds me of the line break you can hear, you can stroke.

Spring is the bursting-time

bursting forth with a great name, "Edgeworthia Chrysantha."  Also known as Paper Bush.  Makes we want to pick up a pen, grab some paper and let the verbs burst forth.  Edgeworthia reminds me that eggs make a lovely lunch.  Yolks beguile.

Really, how far apart are stones & glass?

They speak a language of light & touch.  On a particular Monday one might say, the language of grace.  This is akin to a simple meal prepared and shared with friends.  A poem sent off in hopes
it captures light and a touch of grace.

Ankle-bone level awe

Spring does that to us -- every season.  The Douglas iris is a petite gem.  With strident pollen lines to smitten the most recalcitrant insect.  Are there any recalcitrant insects when pollen is near?  I think of paper & pen like pollen-painted petals.  In that state of awe-waiting.  And look-see, out of dried leaves what is possible.  Reminds me olive oil & garlic & roasted carrots & freshly grated Parmesan cheese & a twist or three of black pepper.  Sweetly sautéing.

Felines know how to inhabit space

intuitively and elegantly.  Cats are landscapes which purr.
Makes me ask, is a poem also a purring landscape?
Speaking of food, salmon, snap peas, rice make me purr.  What makes you purr?

P.S.  The elegant feline above is Sweetie.  Known for her delicate paws, pink heart-shaped necklace and the most beguiling yawn-greeting.  Like her half-brother haiku (now in the cosmos), Sweetie has no interest in poetry. But a blanket is different, deserving attention & touch.