Remembrance of water

We remember in fits & starts and then begin to weave a patch that remembers whole cloth.  Smell cinnamon and you begin seeing scents & stories -- all personal.  All tangible.  You think of one word that suddenly smittens you and you hear a line perhaps of poetry, perhaps the beginning of an exquisite list of favorite words.  There is much to feed us.  Remember to drink plenty of water; the journey will be long.  Dreaming may be interrupted.

Overlapping

Dreaming, cooking & writing a line or two.  Layers, for sure.  Interlocking, interweaving spirit- stories.  Similar gestures performed with spoon & pen.  And mouth.

At the speed of...

Fill in the blank comforts as does list making.  But the image above, promotes spiral-making.  Or swirling words.  Or in the kitchen, swirling cream in a root soup.  Perhaps it all comes down to the speed of a spoon.

When does a narrative become clear?

When hands move the dial to due north?  Or noon?  Or three in the morning?
When is soup perfected?  When is a poem done?  Or a chicken for that matter?
At the heart of it all, four petals, four directions.  And a kind hunger.

Can you hear this bird's call

stretching all the way to Paradise?  Sometimes all it takes is a direct line of communication.  Quite vegetal.  Much like spinach sautéed with garlic.  Like a line of poetry seemingly straight and then
spiraling into itself.  Magical, of course.

Diffused

Scent & word sent into the four directions by a simple twist of a line.  The same can be said of freshly- baked bread.

Light as mask

How many masks does a person put on during a lifetime?  How many somber?  How many gleeful?Mischievous?  How many masks does a person take off?  I might as well ask, how many ears of corn does a person consume in a lifetime?  How many tomatoes (please differentiate between heirloom & cherry)?  How many times does a person begin a poem with "because"?  Or plot that word in the middle of a line?

Slowly, slowly

a book
is turning
itself
into
flower

Layer upon layer

and only the surface is seen.  Dazzling rays & haze commingle.  Behind every ray, there is a tree. Behind every tree, a story looms.  The stars are grateful for your admiration.  And gratitude is the impetus for any meal shared, for any poem prompted by a friend.

Is it seeing or feeling

that brings the narrative whether it's a meal or a line of poetry?  I don't know but this is tickling my imagination and palette.  And, yes, palate.

What if

there are two centers and each whole & complete?  How does that change the next sentence you will write?  The next, you will read?  How does it change the taste of the next and probably last fig you will eat for many, many months?  There is marvel and there is sadness in the cosmos.

Sometimes the novel is outside the book

Look up.
Tell me that isn't a confluence of words?  
Now tell me, what's for lunch?