Proof

the inanimate isn't.  Full of sap & wind-wiggling branches.  Roots a plenty.  Seeking water & sun & the cooling of evening.  She's a beauty, isn't she.  More reliable than a guard dog, too.  Let's have cold soup -- vibrantly blueberry-ish -- for lunch.  We'll serve in small clear glasses with petite spoons.  Let's send a poem out into the world which may or may not include the word "blueberry." There you have it.

A river flows into the vegetal

Or what beets dream about.  The confluence of ripening.  Much like shaping a meal. Or shaping a poem. Pay attention to the tributaries -- real & imaginary.  Learn to meander.  Take up whistling.

Night is a color unto itself

Night shadow-izes plants.  Converts their green leaves to shadows.  Night offers a dream-state of a palette.  Muted yet vivid by an absence.  Or a lamp left on.  The same can be said of editing a poem.  The same is true for a subtle dish, perhaps beans.

Vicia Faba & nightshade

with basil.  What's not to like when fava beans, tomatoes (yellow heirloom & red cherries), olive oil, salt, pepper hang out with basil.  Your mouth is happy speaking the language of Spring into the first vowels of summer.  Eyes & mouth concur:  a simple colorful salad is a petite poem.  Yup.

The stars are waning

but not the fragrance of the jasmine.  In fact the allure is waxing for bee & hummingbird.  A galaxy of poems ready to be experienced.  Inspiration for many a meal.  

Bars, bees & hunger

Space between bars are like open windows to a bee.  Seems a slim meal but sometimes it's what you don't see --

herbs in a sauce; all the words removed from a line of poetry.

Absence is a conveyance for lushness. What is our bee sipping on?

Agastache Kudos Mandarin.  A perennial hyssop.  Honey-mint-scented plumes. Pinkish orange.  What's not to love? What's not to be smitten by?  

Sometimes a face, sometimes a fan

The color pink & rosy with a stroke of red and the hue of loam to ground.  Who shall we call her?  How does she spin?  How does she turn a salad into a poem?