A passing glance is no snapshot

but impressionistic, for sure. I think of ingredients
before the meal is created.  The alphabet before a poem
created, before the poem spoken.  Of course, this is
a Mother-in-Law plant which I have always called by
its popular name -- snake.  Anyone remember poetry
at Forked Tongue?

Restraint

& the otherworldly.  Similar to punctuation & a poem, don't you think?  Knife to bread as bread gives up the notion of being single.  

The underlying language

Call it subtext.  Call it creative inference.  Call it the poem about to coalesce. Call it supper.  This amount of mango & tomatoes will be yummy.  And look the sky is blue.  The gray?  Just someone passing by.

I see new growth

might as well be new shoots on the flowering jasmine.  But then again, I'm drawn to black ink, black coffee & an unwavering love of concrete.  Love the surface of concrete.  Much depth there.  Like layering flavors in a salad.  Or arranging words into a petite poem beginning with "thus."  Or ending.

Something old reimagined

Coffee, tea & spoons.  My newest gesturing-meditation -- the spoon.  As object, as metaphor.  Perhaps as the latest in pens.  The paper?  Liquid & very coffee-ish.  I'm realizing, a spoon is a marvelous conveyance for poems, don't you think?

Seeing through rock

All you have to do is move your feet.  It's elementary.  Elemental.  Fundamental as carrots.  Cut them -- slice, dice, on the vertical, on the horizontal, releasing veins of carotene.  All of this from just looking through a rock for the inside of a poem.

Sometimes the abstract makes demands

just like almost every cat I've met, ever loved.  Reminds me, too, of a new notebook as it awaits the first nouns, verbs, adverbs, prepositions and the traffic signals of grammar.  Or the lack thereof.  And what about the kitchen, you ask?  Well those new black & white luncheon-size plates, of course.

Joy of unexpected beauty

My friend Ann saw this bloom high up in a tree.  The tree -- so far unnamed -- laden with flowers.   You wouldn't see this from a car window.  Walking is essential to beauty.  As is chopping to cooking.  As is pen to paper.  Yup, blooming words.

Sometimes the text says it all

And all you need do is make yourself a cup of tea.  Toast would be welcomed.  Grammar will shepherd the poem.

Perhaps through conversation

Perhaps through sharing food, story, images or word. Beauty binds our most gentle parts.  Breath.

also kitchen drawer

also all those filled journals.  Tell me, who wrote them?  Remind me, how a meal gets put on the table?

It's comforting to see the center

All the reaching and all downward flowing to rooting also comforts.  I think of water boiling for pasta. I think of the sea and of magical jellyfish undulating.  I think of an audience hearing a poem, then a communal gulp and release of breath.  And I am grateful.  Is it any wonder, I want to feed my friends?  Do you have the address?