My house naps quiet
behind the tree;
the world passes by
obliviously.
The grandeur of
my life within,
curtained by
the daily din,
cannot be guessed
by passersby
who see my house
as small and shy.
My stemmed fine art
goes undetected,
like ruby rose window,
unexpected.
A splendid secret:
who could know
my little house
is Chenonceau?
Is the pond a kaleidoscope,
tumbling, soulless,
into accidental beauty,
or does it
in wistful deliberation
dream itself in Giverny?
Like old sepia photo
inviting eye to linger
does sepia of wood
invite admiring finger.
Eminently touchable
in smooth and rounded form,
from chocolate to butterscotch
toasted, glazed, warm.
Like mystery in the photo
the mystery in the wood
makes us stop and ponder
exactly as we should.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to Traders Point Creamery, Zionsville, IN.
It seems to me
there’s an obvious plot
to get my goat
(which is got a lot).
How else explain
these mortal remains,
matted and framed,
among the day’s banes?
A villainous move,
a deliberate ploy,
to irritate, vex,
to taunt and annoy.
There was nothing to do
but take all apart
and grouse at the bug
who thought he was art.
Gather ye zinnias
while ye may,
and salute not much
with patchwork nosegay.
With spikes of cool lavender,
chrysanthemum puff,
in little glass pitchers
not much is enough.
It doesn’t take big
to bring joy to our eyes;
the palette of zinnias
is its own giant size.
With apologies to Robert Herrick,
and thanks to my dear friend Donna for the zinnia seeds!
The recipe,
that work of art,
bequeathed from bubbling
kitchen heart,
with stain and splot
of ancient dough,
bringing to Now
the Long-ago.
Penmanship of
floured hand,
preserved on paper
less than grand,
thus creating
choice giftwrap
of what was once
a lowly scrap.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,
and to Rose Schloot, owner of Cross River Lodge,
Grand Marais, Minnesota,
where this eloquent old piece of the past is displayed.
Nothing’s so old it can’t be new
in someone’s imagination,
no sameness so worn it can’t inspire
commodious innovation.
Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg,
and to Cross River Lodge, Grand Marais, Minnesota.
If I could befriend watercolor
and dip my brush into a sunset,
I would capture this
with scrupulous palette.
Then again, if I did,
and caged it in a frame.
how deluded would I be
to think it looked the same?
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
Is it a window
if no one looks out
and no one looks in?
What’s it about?
It’s ever so pretty,
an unblinking eye,
watching the birds
and years flying by.
Maybe that’s all,
enough just to be
a fanciful brooch
on limestone lady.
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
The gnarly muffin,
oven art:
happy stomach,
happy heart.
Each lump a wink
of what’s within,
promise of sugar
on the chin.
I read of COVID projects.
One of mine is the pursuit of the
perfect
gluten-free
blueberry muffin.
A worthy quest, don’t you think, dear reader?
