Something from childhood, perhaps our first forays into reading picture books. Perhaps, we were fed on optimism instead of reality: the beauty & delicacy of fog. Perhaps, secretly we are lovers of orange food -- persimmons & such which we all know pares beautiful with fog & petite poems. Just look up fog's sleeves.
blue basin the parking to, looking for her owner, when up struck a giant fish, looking for some water. it was perhaps the love of walking, of beaches, of fog, of painting, of eating and remembering that has kept her going, fruitlessly, in search of open spaces. and in the mystery of constructing sentences, sheep heads, ice-stricken sculptures, brown and withered gardens, promises of glass and warmth in a bus station, perhaps she shall find her truth, or perhaps she shall find there is none, but only fantasy and fun, freewheeling paper dolls, like the one's on her gramma's porch, playing "check the stocks" with her cousin, her cousin now in south carolina, escaping the floods in a hotel, her husband trying golf.
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