I am aged, but still raw, uncooked, unfinished. I steep myself in cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, preparing for winter. But still I fail to render more than a rough uncertain embodiment of what will satiate my continued thirst. For what? With what mural of flavor do I wish to paint the days, the seasons, the years?
I never expected to find the perfect recipe—only to be somewhat clarified. Not cured, but blended into the essences of a Tuscan sunset, infused with the richness of the bouquet of approaching night.
waiting for the moon–
new, it opens the cosmos–
full, it whispers “time”
A haibun for Merril’s dVerse prompt of spices. The grids are from a 100-day project I did in 2015 combining colors and grids. In my final post for the project, I included some quotes from poet Sara C. Harwell. This one seems eerily prescient of what I wrote today.
It looks like a painting by someone I can’t remember. How have I reached the point, is it age?
When the sky resembles a painting more than the sky?
–Sarah C. Harwell, “Cloud Cover”