If I put my next poem in a blender

with a bunch of radishes & bell peppers, what will I call her? Will she be soup? Appetizer? If soup, I will serve in one of those small matte black bowls. If appetizer, she will be placed lovingly on the small oval dish with feathers & writing.

Pampas grass is never far from a breeze

Pampas grass is one of the most kinetic vegetation for sure. What's kinetic in the kitchen? Boiling water awaiting pasta. Or a poem waiting its next line break. For sure, the kinentic knows no brakes.

Within the within

Where precisely is this place? Can it be touched? Are reflections real? Are numbers arbitrary? Just so, a candle -- lit.

Something you'd like to hold onto

Or use as a paperweight for the cards you might receive. For the notes you leave yourself. Recipes, are a given. Gestures of all sorts especially those fragments of poems. Of course, fragments are poems. Time to pull some Sappho from the shelf.

Nestled in the crooks

And how about crannies, too. Tactile and bold. Each with her own room. Or should I say, a squash of one's own.

Is it January?

California brown hills turn verdant. Hope always comes from home. From the earth. Also, I guess from the kitchen. Or a simple pen put to generic paper. A branch to the sky.

Calibrating distance

Within reach? Or is this simply an eye test? There's plenty to screen. I want to hear the conversation. Are prepositions being debated? Are carrots on the chopping block? Endless, possibilities.

My raven in the sky

And here's the voice of my raven: What will I learn today? What kindess offer? What adventure accept?

Progression of a shadow

=

not quite like a meal progresses but definitely akin to a poem and perhaps, the emotions therein.  

 

Transitory

yet tenacious, for sure.  Like so much around us and in us. Every season puts forth this duality: Winter's melting snow, Spring's cherry blossoms, Summer's corn and  Fall's sugar maples.  A poem that went unwritten.  

Can you see the spot of red?

OK, see a red spot in your imagination.  Perhaps, no one mentioned to you, this spot is moveable. Where are you placing it?  Why?  And what does this have to do with the physics of fog, an empty bowl, and tiny slip of paper with one word written in red ink -- read?
 

A perspective on absence

Absence doesn't exist.  So what are you seeing? Absence is like an empty bowl, neither of them are. Absence is like an unwritten poem:  both of them palpable.