But of course...

jellyfish.  

Delicate danger.  

Seemingly effortless undulations.  

Cloud-like.  

And all which sweeps into can become food.  

Being open to the environment -- that's what a poem is about.  

What we look through to see out the other side

eyes through glasses.  Now, I'm thinking slots in a spoon.  Pasta water.  I'm thinking how petite poems are not bows as much as petals.  I'm thinking that a favorite ceramic plate can curve with the best of light.  Yup.  I'm thinking.

Submerged

The cut tree trunk oozes -- liquid reflection.  And the red? A marker for something now forgotten  or made useless.  Perhaps, a punctuation mark.  Why now am I thinking of the liquid from cooked pasta flowing down the kitchen drain?  Or all the words that bled off a page all these years?  Where do these written gestures end up?

What is this?

Don't know but the unable-to-name intrigues pushes me toward a center -- familiar & unfamiliar.  Both ancient & contemporary. Like words, colors are doors & windows.  What am I opening?  What, closing?  In which direction will the wind blow?  

A party of some sort

which makes me think of the gap between party & celebration.  Between food & dinner.  And yes pink food -- beets in yogurt for sure.  Watermelon & watermelon radishes.  OK, OK, canes. By the way, when does a list burst forth as a poem.

Hard to tell whether

going or coming.  What weather will be encountered.  Whether or not it rains, determines the soup likely to be made.  The word "likely" is a technical weather-word.  Like "perhaps" in a poem. Yes.
Yes, sometimes images reappear & latch themselves to different words.  It happens.

This reminds me of nothing

but itself.  A life described in a children's picture book -- sans language.  But then, color is a language.  Much as cooking.  Of course, writing. especially a petite poem, is playing with color fields, for sure.