The poetry of almonds is the poetry of warm-veined woody petals shaped like toasted teardrops. Soaked overnight an almond readily relinquishes its slipcover of skin. Reveals two halves joined like smooth pale palms in prayer. Between them the vision of an almond tree in bloom, slender and bridal. For an almond carries like its own silent consonant, the memory and possibility of a tree. Present even if unpronounced.
Category Archives: Naturesque
The poetry of mist is a magician in vaporous white cape. Who by sleight-of-hand hides an entire hillside, multiple treetops and telephone poles up capacious sleeves replacing known world with mystery. Mist-ery. Perhaps the words are related. I will look it up later. For now I wonder what will materialize when this faint cloth is whisked away. The hills we know and love, or perhaps a row of white rabbits in top hats.
The poetry of feather is weightless whisper smooth against cheek. A singular sleek caress. Feather sings of bird and all that flies beyond the deciduous particulars of plumage. Wingspan dawnsong glittereyes sharpbeak lightbone and swiftness. Which of these alone is bird? Love is a coalescing defying dissection. Transcendent assembly of bewitching detail that conjures up more than the sum of its feathers every time.
The poetry of raspberries is the poetry of summer rubies. Heaped high in small baskets, short-lived scarlet jewels. Miniature fruit of delicate whiskers and stubborn invisible seeds. Fragile to the touch and fashioned like so many tiny stemless goblets to sip joy from.
The poetry of stickerless fruit is to sigh for. Almost gone are the days. Stickered fruit is tacky. Tackiness interferes with art. Let this be clear: Brands don’t belong on the bounty of the earth. Thanks be given the old masters of still life, Da Vinci Caravaggio Vermeer Cezanne – their names a lyrical parade – were spared the indignity of having to deal with individual green and red Del Monte labels on their fruit.
The poetry of rapid recovery is a beautiful bruised sky aching outside your window. A deep spreading purple-redness asking for attention. But by the time you fetch a washcloth packed with ice it has already healed and is dressed in hot pink, startling the far trees on the hill into suddenly striking silhouette.
The poetry of onions is in part, the fact that they belong to the same family as lilies. Somehow she had always drawn an odd sense of comfort from this fact. ‘Liliacae’, she would mutter under her breath. A mantra that meant to her, quite simply: More things are related to each other than you or I suspect.
The poetry of the full moon breathes softly in a dark sky. A beautiful face, hard to ignore. Demanding nothing, no not even your attention, because she has been around long enough to outlive her own insecurities and the fledgling performer’s need for an appreciative audience.