Look. Look some more.

That's the reason for walking.  Seeing things at eye level.  Sometimes stooping is required.  Pretend you are a pretzel but stop short of pain.  When I walk, I pass into and through light.  Not a shabby place to be.  Much like cooking; always like writing a line or two.  Here's the irony, I go outside to be inside.

No worries

Cats are purring wisdom.  To be content in being swaddled and then give ourselves completely to sleep.  No to-do list.  No shoulds.

Grains of all kinds

those we eat & those from whom we build a bench.  We sit and are given the opportunity to marvel at the simple, the organic.  Who can explain the physics of why a simple wood grain can spark memories of family or can be the catalyst for the title of a poem?

Deities

in the irregularities of a marble floor
in the root system of trees
in the tango of spoon and soup
in the verb of a smile

Leafy and leathery

Imagine walking in fond shoes, wearing a leather jacket with giant magnolia buttons or simply emptying your mind in something so otherworldly, it stops you in your tracks.  What will you make for dinner?  Which words become the next familiars?

Withered and beautiful

intrinsically delicate
fragile for our times
our appetites, our intentions
the downpouring of words

Every object is a landscape

especially a refrigerator.  Stainless steel -- ah! the stories it can tell.  Consider, the refrigerator as an alphabet.  So tell me, what's for dinner?  Are you editing in or editing out the carrot in that petite poem?

A glass ceiling

is a canvas for interesting bric brac, for the unassimilated.  For nouns of all sorts.  Memories, too, including favorite recipes & phrases.  All the disparate can be pulled together in a sentence, in a recipe. To be shared.  To be served up.

Time is best seen at daybreak

What else has dawned on me this morning?
The intrinsic beauty in what I see and say "lovely."
Playfulness of word order.
Joy in the non sequitur.
That persimmons have arrived.  And are not at their best.  But will be.

Seen in normal light

above ground.  Calligraphy.  What is being written is open to interpretation -- gnarled or gone underground.  Reminds me to edit that poem -- again.  Reminds me it's time to roast root vegetables.
Serve on a plate in evening light.

Pumpkin time

Autumn is time's hinge.  At it's center, you can see the moon working out the arithmetic -- necessary & beautiful.  No different than baking squash.  No different than editing a poem.  In all instances, look toward the moon; herein lies wisdom.  A tad of mischief, too.

When pens become triangles

what is being measured?  Do nouns and verbs understand equidistant in a poem?  How would a wooden spoon related to these conditions?  The air is shifting; time, falling.  Pens might just be the corral to hold us together.