Even in paintings, flowers are never quite still

Irises may be silent, but not stilled; too much pollen for that.  It can be exhausting to be in the eye of Spring; make sure to linger over a second cup of tea.  Stare out a window, don't be alarmed by surprise.  Tuck surprise into a corner of a pocket.  A snack for the journey ahead.  Time is always a journey, isn't it?  Remember, it only takes 26 letters in some-such combination to make a poem.

Brushes

Organic Spring brushes. Handles made from Manzanita bark.  Sufficient pollen to feed a tribe of bees, butterflies & hummingbirds.  Food for a poem -- a petite one, at that.  Comes with its own carrier.

The time of swirl

Spring:
tulips
iris
cherry-
blossoms
asparagus
& soon
fava beans

P.S.  The poem?   Always in the swirl.

From the insect's perspective

the grid curves.  Prism refracts.  See the buzz of vibrating wings.  Each wing a mystery of spirals & stories, intersecting at the center.  You wonder, what was the insects last meal? Sticky & satisfying?  You wonder, will your next poem be such -- satisfying & sticky?  

Who doesn't desire

to be held in the curve of a vibrant plant?  Who doesn't want the feel & curlicue spirit of a farmers market?  Who doesn't love the gentle curve of a "p" or "o" or "e" or "m?"

Insects are impartial

to rain yet very fond of carrots.  Perhaps, that's a secret that we may wish to protect.  Also, insects love ink, how it leaves the insect's signature everywhere -- in swirls, in smudges.  Science is finally proving that insects can be traced in the hinge word in petite poems with at least six legs.

Spring and the spiraling of its energy

Can't you see, can't you feel Spring's turbulent growing?  Each compression of each spiral, you sense soon it will reverse and everything which is budding will burst into bloom.  Similar to plating fresh tomatoes (soon) with fresh basil & mozzarella, a drizzle of olive oil, a twist & turn of pepper.  Stand back for the poem to spiral onto the page.

Wishful thinking

It's asparagus time and yet I am wistful for persimmons.  There's the mouth trying to summon the taste of Fuyus.   Much like trying to remember a line of poetry you crafted while walking in the farmers market.  The line is gone by the time you reach for those carrots.

When the entire room becomes a wreath

Braided & swirled like all good soups.  Like a poem.  Remember in all of this, there are windows.  Poems are especially smitten by a good view.

Alphabets

Letters.  Colors.  Textures.  Smells.
What is seen is what is tasted.
What is seen is the poem.

What flows in

what flows out and who witnesses these occurrences.  Much like stirring soup.  Much like stirring a poem.  Now, where did I put the ladle?

Not what you might expect in the kitchen

Perhaps not what you might expect in a poem.  Graphic arts?  Could happen.  Coming into the silence of snow which others call space.  Have you noticed, no lack of words for what you can't describe? Probably that's how recipes & the paring of wine have become so poetically complicated.  So poetically complicit?  Oh somebody, just hand me a haiku.  Right now.  A spoon, too, to stir something.