Morning Prayer

It is a brighter blue than the blue before the sun
Awakens with a roar, wet tendrils of lake mist
Curl upward, a brief life's sigh
Before the morning lifts its sheets
To find me hanging on to the weight of sleep
Three blissful minutes more
Before eyes pry open wide open
Ears open wide to the sound of sirens
Now much stronger than yesterday's
Sirens hurrying down the street
Screaming of obligations.
I wear duty like a yoke around my neck
It is the badge I wear, a knotted lace where
Mobile and spectacles hang alongside
The necessary talisman.
Thank goodness for the
Thrum of a well oiled truck
That takes me here and there
The comings and goings
To one thousand certain --
and uncertain destinations.
Thank goodness
For this is how everyday starts
Always with a poem and a song
I call on these to sustain me
Until the quitting hour.

whorl

there's a hole in the sky that opens up
somewhere a bucket is emptied,
and a head leans down
to collect pieces
of itself

early morning verse #1

early morning fog
rolls into a dewdrop
slides down a leaf
plops into a ripple



hello sunshine

another wet sunset

parachute

Legs crossed, contemplating the shadows and digits dancing on the wall
Here in the lovely shade of lateral blinds pulled taut
I sit long enough like this


Taking in the shapes within the round, beige dome
This womb I might as well call home
Where days are punctuated by the whir of necessary machinations


Sit long enough like this through eight-hour shifts, by design
The rewards, the promises of good speculation and chrystal orbs
The ones that soften your crash from the rattle and rush of working years


Sit long enough like this, but not so still
Crunch of numbers,  quick,  calculate the good years of service
How many more hours until the golden hour.

On nouveau sushi and food art:

I've been thinking of your pretty lunch

Too beautiful to eat.

I wouldn't know where to start, except that foamy substance
Calls out to me
The one with tiny radishes sprouting out of a seed,

New foam delicately balanced on a chopstick
Dances on the tongue unexpectedly sweet
Lick it once more to savor a taste of summer

Blue

 A ball of teal yarn and The Masterful Flame of Queen Leona, by Umberto Eco.

I have outdone myself.  Seriously - there are approximately 5 knitting projects going on in the house.  One I particularly love (at the moment, my caveat, as I can't have pet projects lest one becomes jealous of the other) is this teal yarn. Malabrigo Teal, in varied shades of blue, indigo.  I imagine the colors fading in and out, but gosh I only have 1 skein. Maybe I will try a cowl this time.












"Poetry is what gets lost in translation."


— Robert Frost

moon shadow

saturday morning at the farmer's market