My body loves yogurt for breakfast. What I didn't know...

my favorite black bowl (a pair) loves the creaminess of yogurt and from that makes its own landscape.  Perhaps, in the crucifer family?  Got to look to the mundane and the small for beauty and joy -- essential right now, wouldn't agree?  

In which room of the house

does this dream appear?  Probably this is only space where her red sneakers would clash.

 

Life persists

even when the roofs are rotten. On an optimistic day, I think of these magical kingdoms surviving what others call rotten.  
 

Cosmic plan unfolding?

A revised Zodiac?  Wishful thinking?

 

Have you ever considered

how a room sees roses?  Well, it's raining; rain is an excellent incentive to ponder such questions. 

 

You randomly opened to page 151

Here's the line:  "She was no where to be seen although an oboe had been carefully placed on the small wooden table next to a glass of water."  
 

Fish swimming through lichen

Upstream in some many ways.  Ah, but those scant lines of blue hold me, hopeful.  As does the dream of forsythia -- yellow stars from childhood..

 

Even pitch-black night

has light, or the dreams of it.  Something to consider (perhaps bring a smidgeon of hope) if you do read the newspaper.  
 

A sturdy frame

no match for reflection.  Might this be the opening line of a memoir.  

 

Permanence & impermanence

Each season has its voice.  Each season, its favorite food.  Adieu, to the Fuyu.  

Undoing knots

is easier with a buddy.  Or is this how fish think of trees as a conundrum?

Teeth,

 

Succulently speaking.

A great plume

is not only found on a hat.  Or a pen.  What grace.  

Neighborhood walk at sunset

Twenty one miles north east of San Francisco.  No bridge in sight unless you consider the arch of a flock of migrating Canada geese.  

Don't be alarmed when you discover

under the silkiness of a rose petal there is crackle waiting to happen.  Who should you tell?  
 

Winter's eye

has it's sight on frost, swirling snow, snapping branches.  This I know intimately yet choose to live in a place where winter is green-hilled.  Here, there may be frost but it's not the norm.  The icy cold does not linger.  Yet, the heavy morning sweater with its cozy collar is welcomed.  

 

Door and portal

to wonder.  As I wandered SF, how did I find myself?  

 

Do branches speak

with more nouns or more verbs?  Does the time of day influence a tree's lexicon.  Is color involved? 

 Or shadows?

 

Out of Season?

The daffodil or me?

 

Strutting

and in the egret's wake a liquid palette.  A visit by an egret is nothing less than elegant hope.  

 

Don't know to be happy or scared.

 Irises are blooming in the front yard.  It's January.  

A good ending leaves the door open

for a fine beginning.  So the year ended with a jumpstart on 2025 resolutions:  make a flatbread.  What's up for 2025, to know flatbreads as the palette of culinary innovation, community and adventure.  What's not to like?  Pull up a chair; conversation is on the menu.  Here's a napkin.