Is this a toy

or a very specific and practical tool?  Perhaps you never see but if it wasn't invented the simple would not function?  Ball bearings?  Makes me think of writing.  Without a pencil and its progeny, which  words would have gone unwritten.  Without a mirror, which masks, silent.  Think of the kitchen as a laboratory of invention.  Spoons, spatulas, strainers, saucepans.  Moving away from the beguiling "s" sounds -- can openers, mandolins, rice cooker, knives.  You get the point  No pun intended.

Look deeply

look closely, you might see the star-center of a persimmon.  Or you might see the abundant body of a pomegranate.  Or both.  When you read a poem, can you see the shadow of revisions.  Can you hear all the out-takes?  And in soup, can you identify the mysterious ingredient or what the cook left out?  And if she did so on purpose, why?

Moving

into or out of.  So liquid, perhaps our fingerprints are unreliable witnesses.  Feels like a train station ready for an unexpected journey. The packed spoons, pens & notebooks are not those which will be used on this journey.  Implements & instruments -- anew.

Sometimes it's about what you are seeing

when you are not seeing.  Call it memory.  Call it dream.  Call it kindness.  Soon a spoon arrives. Soon you reach for the pen and see the paper.  Soon, simply you walk.

Memory as a wreath

Ah that poinsettia won't let go of memory.  It circles & encircles.  It wreaths memory.  Like needle does thread.  Like pen finishing off an "I."   Like spoon in and out of split pea soup.  Here memory has the hopeful tinge of pomegranate, don't you think?   Sheer abundance.

The state of a poinsettia's memory

I wonder about the state of a plant's memory.  For instance yesterday's poinsettia.  Is its memory firm/grounded as its roots?  Perhaps, pervasive?  Or liquid as time & properties of water?  Is it dissolving to sleep or rising?   The same can be asked of a poem.  The same can be said of a meal -- does it rise from the plate or is it resting before the eater's expectations?

More life-gifting than Santa Claus

In the Mission District of San Francisco -- poinsettia.  Stop walking and listen to the story.  The man who is painting a small pink canvas in his driveway tells me the poinsettia was formerly the root above and migrated to a trunk next to to the original.  He's lived there for 29 years and it flowers every year about this time.  Walking is a banquet for the eyes and posies for the page.   Keep walking.  Keep looking down.  Keep looking up.  Keep a blank page & pen nearby.