Reflected gestures

The capture reads:  glass bowl on woven runner.  I like to think of each word as a prism available to both reader & writer.  Have you noticed perspective is never singular? Have you noticed the same rings true of salads?  Of friendships?  Of snowflakes? Of words in a fragment?  What glass takes in; what glass reflects.  All fragments.  All gestures.

On the nature of a fence

The golden mean:  whatever is being kept out an equal whatever is being kept in.  Who remembers the spectacular hail then cloud-rainbow yesterday? Another instance of natural drama. Also, the kitchen is a natural landscape for both drama & alchemy as is a pen etching a landscape onto paper. Whatever(s) prevail(s).

Flowers know how to pollinate memory

A bowl is a simple & complex blessing

What is wanting
to be filled?
What is wanting
to be emptied?
And who crafted
these petals
into spokes?

A window sees through a cabbage

This is not a dream although it has the feel of memory.  Perhaps, it is the vegetal which looks through the window to find something misplaced.  Nothing is lost, really.  Neither word nor spoon.

Ocean as yarn

and what tales the ocean can tell.  These are water's roots --powerful dream-agents and they go deep.  Reminds me of engaging in a meal where food & conversation commingle.  Where conversation goes deep or skips on the surface but is not trivial.  Or paper where the words shimmer, sometimes are lucid yet dreamy.

Gears

But what is this gizmo?  Sometimes, function is foremost. Sometimes not.  That conversation is at the forefront of all cuisines as well as any poem.  Perhaps, grandmother was right when she said a pen is the gizmo and your intentions are gears which make a poem spin.  Do you agree?