Why do we say a garden blooms

when really it explodes?  Just as a fresh tomato or berry implodes in a mouth.  From familiar words, a poem explodes with tastes & textures.  And always, light.  

Definitely flutes

by day; pens at night

stitching in the folds.   

Who said there is only 

one center?  Or a house

is sustainable by a single

spoon?

Tinted

and spun.  Spun?  Is that what happens when a meal is pleasantly plated?  And what of a poem? Is there an app to spin words?  As a matter of fact, there is.
Check-out Wordle.  wordle.net

Presenting fava beans

Food, especially just picked from the garden, is like a poem.  Your initials all over it.  Whose initials
on the vintage glass plate?  My Mom's.

Choosing the instrument to create

Whether pen, brush, musical instrument or spoon what we choose to create with influences what we create.  Or perhaps, simple and necessary as the dialogue of hoe and weed.   By the way, can't you hear an oboe in the above image?

Desiccated

All about perspective, isn't it?
Here's how I see desiccated roses --

and roses see themselves, seeing me:

I think the same may be said of spent carrots.  How about a poem?  How does the poem I wrote this morning, "Abandoned" see itself, seeing me?  Carrots most likely, forthcoming.

Appearances

Yes, beautiful & luscious.  But not fragile as she might appear.  Hardy.  Prolific.  The alstroemeria.   Some foods are like this, too.  Dainty red raspberries pack a wallop of taste.  Now, consider the haiku -- both the poem & the cat (see May 22, 2016 post).  Hardy & beautiful.

above photo app-enhanced, Circular