Masquerade

No, this wasn't thanksgiving dinner.  Though I am thankful for the earth offering such riotous color.

POEM MASQUERADING as a golden/red beets, mozzzarella, basil, lemon/chive pasta, black pepper, olive oil salad and WHITE BOWL MASQUERADING as paper

Crone

She is....
Bowl as face.  Face as bowl.
Facing the kitchen is akin to facing a poem
with an expectation of being fed
food & story.

Smitten

I am smitten by glass.  This sphere by Josh Simpson.  I feel the tug of moon on the seas.  On me.  No less that when writing about the moon.  No less, when cooking & her celestial sliver graces the kitchen window.

Shibori

Some words need sounding for enjoyment.
By the way, this isn't  jewelry.
It's a textile wall hanging in the Shibori style.
I've always thought of her as female.
Always as the carapace of a celestial insect.
Definitely, close to haiku.
And if she were food?  Something vegetal.
Probably asparagus.  Or fava beans.
Yes, fava beans.

Anomaly

Unexpected yet recognizable.  A Fuyu persimmon as poem.  

Tell me, the kinship between anomaly & non sequitur.  

 

Forelle

Petite pears.  Speckled red.
A blink poem in the making.
In the tasting.  

Wood

on wood.  A wooden
spoon on a wooden
cutting board.
Simple,
practical
& necessary
as rain.
Now,
imagine
a pen
resting
on paper.