Raku as supernova

Sometimes it's looking down between your feet that inspires, that tosses you into the cosmos.  And you are gleeful & grateful.  Tomorrow is the Day of Gratitude.  The turkeys are strutting unafraid, oblivious.  And that's another blessing.

I've always been drawn to red.

Have you considered, with red leather gloves the world is slightly more positive, hopeful, navigable?  Also consider, wood spoons made from bloodwood, cherry, and especially cocobolo stirring a soup which you accompany with a seasonal salad of field greens, radishes, Persian cucumbers, feta  & pomegranates.  Life is good.  Life is colorful. Read a fews poems with friend over a glass of red wine.  Life is complete.

Soon the grid itself will glisten

Something magical about the first rains, especially when it's drought conditions in the midst of wildfires season.  Something magical, too,  about the foods of this holiday time.  Tomorrow is the Day of Gratitude and there will feasts for the fortunate with seats at the table.  The mashed potatoes will be whipped & airy.  Each word a celebration.  And smiles verdant.

Have you noticed, trees can be seen

as pens.  And clouds as ink.  At the same time, trees can be knives slicing through a yellow heirloom tomato.  Right now, I am missing heirloom tomatoes, are you?

Last harvest

everywhere, somewhere.  In focus & sometimes slightly to the left of clarity.  Reminds me a meal that didn't quite soar, didn't have the requested pizzaz.  Or a line of a poem that only called in dried leaves and the withered.  And yet, I have with relish  harvested dried magnolia leaves this late harvest while remembering lush roses.

Faint but legible

a life, a story splayed upon hard surface.  I think of the hard surface of raw buttercup squash and a knife as its equal.  I think of a fountain pen etching into fine rag paper.  I think; I walk; I cook.  I write.

Blue Me Away

blue/violet Mid Season bearded iris.  Unexpected this late in November.  The unexpected brings beauty.  I remember last night's citrus pie.  Unexpectedly, light & fresh.  I hope to be caught up in an unexpected word frenzy later this evening.  

Once on the tree

and now in the heart of a tree from which it fell.  True for families, too -- 2-footed and 4-footed.
True of words edited out of poem.  For ingredients tasted yet unseen in a dish.  Simply put, layers of memory and meaning.

Blur

is a swipe into beauty.  Like the taste of unseen pepper in potato soup.  Like the precision of just the right word in a sentence, in conversation, in the imagination.  Complemented flowers in a treasured vase.

Not your usual walk around the neighborhood

Dream-scapes.  Where poems are found and left.  Where the mouth remembers a favorite taste.  The nose, a rose.

Reflection is the narrative,

always has been.  Shadows, too, have gravitas.  Palpable as a fork & knife.  As a pen spilling shadows on a page.

From the inconvenience of an empty bowl to the sadness of an empty bench...

Absences of all kind fascinate me.  I think of it as kin to convex and concave. Two sides of a spoon. A pen writing; a pen resting on a desk.  Do you think benches hold the imprint of people?  Is the same true of a pen, a keyboard?