Celestial

Please don't forget the common objects we love & celebrate
are no longer common.  They are celestial.  Of course, it's obvious
the above is the celestial being of the Fuyu persimmon.
But you knew that.

How is that done?  Ask any seed?  Ask a plate (especially glass).
What is unknown is the shape, texture and color of the next poem.
I plan on slicing a persimmon to welcome inspiration.

Faces

Faces are not restricted to people, animals, birds, fish.  Flowers have faces.  Food, too.  Especially, pies.  Berry pies, in particular.

Blueberry & peach pie by Milton

 And yes, you can read faces in tea leaves and in fallen leaves.

Where's the poem you ask?  Look under the third leaf on the lower right corner.

Hopeful

and grateful.

The space that once showcased the LGBT mural of love
now boarded over. Not a clean, clear canvas.  A board.  Sad.  Very.
And below the opposite -- a close-to full moon illuminating
San Francisco.

Grateful for memory.  Hopeful the mural will be re-created.
Grateful for each turn of the moon. Grateful for last night's
Thanksgiving dinner with friends.

Hopeful for the next poem to appear.

Thanks

as in giving.  At Ann's in Walnut Creek for Thanksgiving and she's assembled nifty appetizers.  I thank her for the celery stalks stuffed with blue cheese.  I'm enjoying the small dish of cashews, too.  She reminds me and in a flood of gratitude I remember I told Ann as a child holiday meals for me included stuffed celery with blue cheese & nut cups.  I thought life quite splendid.  And a splendid day today is.  The leaves hung around in agreement.  Later there will be words on the page.

Erratic

Did you show up for the page?
Were you late for dinner?
I know the tastes of an erratic meal.
But how do you define erratic poem?
FYI:  I'm reading Kay Ryan's
Erratic Facts and you should be,
too.  Should you ask, there will be
brown-rice stuffed turban squash
tonight.  Also, the moon is 2 days short
of full.  Thus, the auspicious
and the erratic intersect.  

Fiction

These the colors & these the shapes I wish for every meal.  For every poem.  A meal and a poem share one thing -- a palette.  Nature is never unsure of its canvas.  Never untruthful.  Although a trick of the eye is always welcomed.

And breakfast, you ask?  Toasted walnut bread with a drizzle of olive oil and abundant slices of Fuyu persimmons.  Why this abundance?  Getting ready to celebrate my friend Kim's birthday.

Sweeping

Weather is serious and San Francisco takes fog to its bosom.  Nestled as a cat for some serious snoozing. Yet our fog (yes, it's personal) comes in a sweep and rarely stays through two meals. Our fog at its most lengthy is a sonnet.  Never an epic.  What's for dinner?  Something warm & fragrant to sweep away the chill.  Perhaps, roasted eggplant, tomatoes, Parmesan, garlic. Crustless.