Buttons. How many buttons does a poem require?

Yes, I'm thinking words are so like buttons. They fasten one thing to another and when not, miraculously all is revealed.


Button mushrooms. I fancy a full range of fungi. A full range of arranged words, too.

Persuasive. Does a poem want to be persuasive?

Or the ear persuaded?


Just as the tongue is persuaded by the perfect apple which is persuaded to be even
grander with just the proper wedge of cheese.

Persimmons. Soon the poem will take on persimmons.

A poem is about what is seasonal and/or out of.
Often, more than two seasons.

There are two major types of persimmons. I prefer fuyu. The word itself is meal.
Is poem. And ripe is hard. Is crunchy.

Porcupine. What is porcupine like about a poem?

Shape.
Hard-edged
& bristled.


Perhaps,
one
once
roasted
a porcupine.

Truly? What makes a poem soar?

Thermodynamics and currents?
Timber of the speaker's voice? Receptivity of the listeners' ears?


As individual, taste in food as in words. Skill & adventure.

Stolen. What is stolen about a poem?

A moment?
A turn of phrase?
The echo of a remembered voice?



Recipes are handed-down. Ripped out of magazines. Cut/pasted/copied from the digital.

Heirloom. Is a poem inherently an heirloom?

Perhaps, a poem is informed (benefits from?) the tradition of the heirloom. Something considered important, familial, and passed down as a treasured, physical object. Heirloom thoughts? A poem most becomes a physical object when it is spoken. When its words & spaces, heard. When it is passed around in space & time. And its taste? Varied as the tongue receiving; as the ear listening.



Heirloom food? Well, tomatoes, of course. Their names are poems in-and-of their brave & satisfying colors. Black Plum, Brandywine, Sungold Cherry, Cherokee Purple, Green Zebra, Amish Paste, Pineapple. Put down the pen; put down the paper. Get out the olive oil, basil, & black pepper. Perhaps, sea salt. Yes, bread.