Faces of the season

Keep the window ajar

Invite the ripe inside 

Invite words to ripple & flow

I love jazz in the afternoon

late afternoon with coffee. Perhaps, a Walker shortbread. The air inhabited by color. Green & blue. Always red. Some hues linger. When the line works, the heart holds on. A word or two, remembered. 

Something you could slide off of

words

gestures

perhaps

the front of

a menu 

promising

cool 

satisfaction

yes

cool

very

An olive being

overtaken

perhaps

nibbled

perhaps

this is

a haiku

becoming 

Space wears a hat

on Monday

by Wednesday

the feather is quite

pronounced

no reservations

required

what you choose

to eat, what you

choose

to write 

gravity 

determines



You might imagine

a star breaking through night.  Or you might image night holding a star in place.  The rose color is pure Baziotes, and always welcomed.  Although this is not his style of gesturing.  Perhaps it's beets giving up their red to ricotta.  Obviously, the poem waits on the kitchen counter.  

I prefer mint green

as ice cream not in clothes.  And especially not in poems.  On the other hand, black is always welcomed with its mysteries & promises.