The landscape of metal

Quite a large piece. The size of a Sub-Zero refrigerator to be exact. Taken at night after sunset. We've always talked about time as the intersection of multiple landscapes and, of course, perspectives. Here's the proof.

Lurking

The real lurks among the real. Who is to say that goat though she be of metal, is no less real than the spikes of green and the ground cover? Or less real that sunflight?

Fringe

Some words are perfectly "sounded." Fringe is an example as is "vibrates." Speaking of vibrates, that's what Spring does. Spring, too, being a wondrously sounded word. "Breakfast," also. Meanwhile, back to fringe. My eyes' memory takes in the Chinese fringe flowers I saw on my walk yesterday and my feet vibrate joyously. No pen/paper necessary.

The prismatic bird takes flight

Am I the only one seeing this? Doubtful. But possible. Makes me think of the probablity of a poem. And, of course, a poem's prismatic flight as I close-in on the probable breakfast which awaits.

A child finger-paints the current season

and I am left to discern. Perhaps, I should simply enjoy what is before me. However, I think this image has something to do with me reading Emily Wilson's translation of the Odyssey. That connection yet to be revealed. Like what's for breakfast? When will the next poem appear; to where did last night's dream dissolve? Oh, how I love digital fingerpainting with no thought of outcome. Simply, a state of gesturing. The latter thought thanks to S.

Prism in the void

Carry this imagine around with you for a day. It is neither too heavy, nor too light. It turns easily honoring the four directions. Go home. Brew a pot of tea. Engage in self-conversation. Make-up petite poems with or without line breaks. Invent recipes for a forthecoming Thursday dinner. It's OK to laugh even though the world's anger is not prismatically pretty.

Some things you never outgrow

Like the first flower which sent you marveling. For me, backyard lilac. In particular, deep purple. This led me to the love of purple in general & to eggplants, specifically. To this day, I love a purple passage in a book. Or poem.

Sometimes the simple is a marvel

This shade of blue makes everything special. Do you think the sky is jealous?

Memory loves erasures

Invents a story to go with absence. Just ask the spoon how she feels about an empty bowl. Or a pen facing the final page of a notebook. No reason not to celebrate the invisible.

If I were able to get to the center

what would the story have to tell me? Could I listen? Color is sound so which creation story is being painted. Or, perhaps, all I need is a cup of tea, piece of shortbread & the preferred pen with black ink.

Otherworldly beauty

Snails fascinate me. Houses on their back. Teancious. I would love to have a conversation with them. Once I really looked at a snail crossing a sidewalk, I forwent eating escargo. Many years ago. Somehow, I don't have a pinch of doubt about eating mussels or pretty much any mollusk. Yes, I've written several poems in which snails and mussels are front and center.

I tend to look

for the prism in everything. Even carrots. Yes, even words. And, of course, glass. And rain.