The phenomenon of white fur clouds

inside a lit petal.  Fleeting yet palpable.  An occurrence at liminal time.

As one year closes, one opens. So may your reading, may your writing be delicious.  May your soufflés hold their form & may you be hopeful.

Stars are seldom straight-forward;

centers frequently, fractal.

The same is true of the dish awaiting the meal or paper annunciating a poem.  Stars and centers.  Let's leave stripes to sort themselves.

Pine cone as tree; bulb as moon

And the tree rooted in water & anchored by blue glass beads.  The realms connect much as story webs people as community.  And we all know, the kitchen creates community -- one potato at a time. And where are the stars, you ask?  In each & every pen.

The window is never just a window

It's narrative, family history.  It's the past told in the vernacular.  The future waiting on the hill.  A recalled scent.  The smell of soup.  The word forgotten which still & is lingering.

When do we ever get to the center

and when do we know?  More to the point, why is that so important?  What's wrong with the edges?  The fringes?  Tonight the moon was cloud-frayed. And so especially enticing.  A meal for the senses. A poem, awaiting for the beloved.  

What captures our imagination?

Let's begin with stars and their symbolic shape.  And that symbolic shape's meaning. Recognizable and yet so personable.  Like a hand which is so like spoon.  Like feather which is so like a pen. Like a twig which, as we all know, is a pen.  Star, spoon & pen.  Let's hope.

Pollen is all-knowing

all-seeing.  Has its pulse on the longevity of beauty.  Like a family recipe preserved by using.  Like a pen treasuring in the using.