The poetry of mustard seeds is measured out in tiny silver spoons. Fine black beads if spilled they scatter rapidly, desperados disbanding because the glamour of self-detonation in hot oil has worn off. They flee to dusty, unreachable places on the kitchen floor. Those who don’t make it meet their eventual fate with spluttering indignation. Determined to go out, not with a whimper but a bang.
The Poetry Of 
June 24th, 2009 at 5:45 am
Whoaa!This is a coincidence!
I was saute-ing mustard seeds just yesterday and thinking that I have never been mindful enough to actually *see* them.
To hear the jingles they create as they fall around helter-skelter.Much like the impromptu tinkling waltz of loose change as it falls out of pockets onto crevices-shelfbacks-ridges and other PlacesThatCantBeNamed from which there is almost no possibility of retrieval.