Dreaming of flowering

pear trees at night and fabricating a full moon while imagining the taste of morning tea

Imagining yellow

Yes, eyes are painters. Use wisely & often. The same goes for hope.

Never forget

Spring has a green eye can see through the thickest bark whose branches are nest & web. When was the first time you seriously noticed Spring or trees with their kingdoms of stories?

Something to do

with melting. Something to do with impermenance. Something to do with the otherworldly. And everything to do with home.

I think of stems

as legs and wonder where they travel once they shed their leaves

Spilling shadows

Trees are remarkable in so many ways. Critical for good living. And like the raven, they have a bit of the trickster in them. Or perhaps, they just want to be paint-poets.

Most likely a cathedral is involved

Stained glass is a language of light, beauty, and its grandmother, sand. Prismatic mystery and rituals to uplift. Now smell a pot of savory soup or something more streamlined: onion & garlic sauteed in butter. Or the sheer whole-hog adventure of reading.

Unsheathed

It's a process. A practice. A promise of spring. As sensual as falling snow but not as silent. By the way, unsheathing happends daily in the kitchen, and everytime a poem writes itself.

Familiar yet strange

You know this place. Have lived here although upon returning, you are met with a feeling of strangeness. The strangeness of a dream -- tangible yet elusive. A taste that won't speak to your mind, just your tongue. A poem that dissolves on the page to become morning's roux.

Ravens in a storm

a storm of ribbons, of course. In the morning after the blue, after the first white sky. Ravens love precision; they speak about it often & vociferously. Like a pot of water boiling. Like a poem screaming to be released. There you have it.

Name that tune

A jazz piece for sure and with lyrics about rain and night and something/someone gone. For good. Although absence is one of the least permanent things I've encountered. Suddenly, Spring arrives with madcap abundance, filling absence beyond measure. Like a favorite dish which no longer relies on a recipe. Or all the filled notebooks waiting for an audience of one.

And if I told you the truth

That path that looks so inviting leading into the center of that tree is no path. It is a rocking chair repurposed as path. Now what became of the rocking chair? Where did all those ends of zucchini cut-off end up? Where are all the words crossed out during the last 5 decades?