Migrate. Are poems subjected to migration?

Is this the seasonal in poetry? Influence of light/dark. Of ripe? Of not yet ripe? The effects of editing? A poet's signature?


In food I migrate toward fresh fig, fava beans, persimmons. Always pears. Signature & seal.

Ripe. Can you tell by looking at a poem if it is ripe?

Does this imply that the best poetry is seasonal? Should poetry be eaten at its ripest? Is it cultural -- some like fruit hard with a bit of crunch. Others, sweet. With fruit, it is sometimes difficult to select the ripest by visuals alone. It is only in the dissecting (knife or teeth to flesh).


I'm anticipating peaches and stone fruit of all kind. Prune plums have made their first appearance. Patience for these as I roast another pan of pears and observe the shape of the poem before me.

When is poetry out of season?

The same is said of weather as it was most recently an uncommonly hot San Francisco weekend.

Leads me to ponder the unseasonably hot poem with a chilled beverage.


Of course, on the meditation of seasons, food has much to offer.