Two eyes

Taking in every aspect of a room from inside and outside.  That is precisely what food does when it is lovingly cooked -- although I've never read that in a cookbook.  And why not?  Two eyes also edit every poem.  Once eye on what's there.  One eye, looking at what's absent.  With both cooking and writing a poem, a reliable window is a good thing.

Vacillate

between knowing this place like my left hand and having no memory even a hint of ever being here.  No question, this place about to reorganize.  Most likely to move in a circular manner. Ceiling fan? Wooden spoons in the kitchen stirring large pot?  A pen writing icy words across noncommittal paper?  Probably as much as your dream as anyone's.  Hold on, I feel a shift about to occur.

At least once

you have been here.  See, they saved your signature.  The pen you thought you lost.  Your favorite wooden spoon brought back from Paris.  Not by you.  Much is not by you.  More by the confluence
of light & water.  Spirals aplenty.  But of course.  You would almost be comfortable if you found one of your footprints.  Fingerprint.

With five pairs

how much land would I cover in one hour? That presupposes that the shoes are not in conflict. One path, one direction.  Much like a recipe but then again you can tastefully derail from any recipe.  That's a given.  You can tastefully derail from any line on a page -- any string of words -- whether pink or not.  Check-out the strawberries at anklebone.

Disks of garment

In last night's dream, clothes were being fashioned out of recycled CDs.  You weren't allowed to listen to them first.  To get back in touch with these old friends who honored your friendship in the 60s & 70s.  Of well, when you were ready for the ball you looked quite fetching.  Of course on your way out the door in those fancy shoes you grabbed your favorite wooden spoon from Paris & necessary pen & paper.  You were prepared for whatever evening had up her sleeves.  Or tucked away in hemline.

Night keeps its corners quiet

Night has it's still, quiet pockets.  Much like a pita.  Much like a poem where the moon bounces off a clean surface.  Especially if she is a super Winter moon.

Sometimes you just go with it

especially if it's spiraling.  Or as a cook might add, spiralizing.  Or a poet watching words acting like tide pools.  Notice the blue eye -- that's the clue.

Spring negotiating with green

Soon Spring's exuberance will be no match for Summer.  Summer will be no match for Fall.  You get the idea where this progression is progressing.  However, the present is no match for time's shenanigans.  Just ask a baker about the necessity of breaking eggs.  Ask paper about its love of haiku.

When the branches of these trees, redden

I am ready to look for spirals in everything straight.  I am ready for the alchemy of Spring, of cooking, of words.  Simply this.

Eventually a name will surface

Until the naming occurs, let's say these are chair legs twisted into an unsuspecting narrative which looks like it has a white pleated collar at its core.  The story could go in many directions. What you had for dinner probably won't make the final cut.  Nor the apple you cored to pare with cheese. Neither will your last haiku.  That's to be expected.

Much like flowers, shadows have their growing season

Here are two little known facts about shadows:  one, they are capable of blooming; two, they are ubiquitous as wildflowers.  Much like carrots are prevalent in kitchens; pens on a poet's desk.  

Why do drains fascinate?

Something alchemical?
Something definitive?
Something about here today, gone tomorrow?
Something about reflection?
Something about concave and convex?
Now, consider the above without the question marks.  Have you?
And should you ask, why is there nothing about food, nor poetry?
There is.  Simply consider the concave and convex.