Centrifugal force

and the pull to nature.  A spiral in the making.  In the intention.  Forests in the seas. Interconnected and not letting go.  I'm thinking of kelp.  But not for breakfast.  I'm thinking of kelp & a line for a poem.  Begin as I usually do -- with breakfast.  And if there be a line, it will (as most do) curve.

Upon reflection

some reflections warble, some twist & coil.  Is it the thing growing, the thing closer to death, or simply, it is water's magic & mayhem?  Consider this: without water, cooking is limited.  Tea, impossible.  Without reflection, poems can be scant & sketchy.  There you have it on a May day rather early in the month.

As National Poetry Month winds down

haiku, too, takes a snooze upon some writing about a blessed memory.  Only later the question arises, What's for dinner?

The mountain sees itself for the first time

and admires its reflection.  When a salad looks at itself, what does it see?  Which ingredient does it recognize first?  Is it true, poems are partial to prepositions & the particulars of gender?

Eyes & ears

All that's necessary to take in the day.  A conversation.  Eavesdropping, of course.  An underbelly of spinach & a memory of raspberries.  See & hear and words will follow.  And if this is not in an act of eavesdropping, well, you'll find a poem by noon.

The surreal is palpable

yet dreamlike.  It bends to the desires of water.  And memory.  Ask any fish.  Ask any poem.

And a dog in the background

doesn't disrupt or derail the majestic beauty of these bearded irises.  Their composure makes them immune to any barking disturbance.  Fragile & strong commingled.  A perfect balance like the perfectly crafted martini.  Vodka, of course.  With a twist.  Soon it will be a good friend's birthday
with poems aplenty & gestures to grow on.  Perhaps, Goldfish the hue of pollen.