Dryer

Welcome blast
In frigid air,
Warming to the toes.
Neatly fold
And match in pairs
The newly laundered clothes.

Sharing

The monkey-boy in brown T-shirt
Implores the towering brother
Morsels of food descend from the sky
You must love one another.

Gentleman

I am cold, and it's growing colder.
I feel a brush upon my shoulder,
And your coat is keeping me warm.

Saddle Mountain

The world unfolds around me,
Familiar places in unfamiliar views.
I see the shining ocean.
Great waves reduced
To small pond sparkles.
Feelings of insignificance,
Ignorance,
And profound respect
Fill my enlightened soul
As I stand on top of the world.

Six facts about me, because my friend tagged me in a meme

I like to take my socks off.
And my shoes.
And feel the warm soft mud squish
Through my toes.

I can find a snatch of song
In my mind,
To suit any occasion
I may find.

My favorite place to read books
Is in trees.
It's more peaceful up there, except
For the breeze.

I adore the name that's me,
It is mine.
It's oddity and beauty
Suit me fine.

I enjoy wearing weird hats
for each mood
I've found it provokes nice chats
Which is good

I like to eat sour cream
Plain and straight.
Now I eat cream that's vegan.
Still tastes great.

Getting to know you

Scattered groups,
Joining, dividing,
Moving, colliding,
Primordial soup.
In which perhaps
A friendship
Will be born.

Creation

The shrill song of the wheat grinder breaks the stillness of the hot summer air. Hundreds of hard red grains sink into the unseen whirling mechanisms. The sight and sound are hypnotic, drawing me away from the to-do list scurrying around my mind. I lift the white top off of the silver base, and pause to sift the staff of life through my fingers. The texture is very different from the sort of flour you would buy in a store. It's less silky and ethereal, more substantial and earthy. It feels more real. I measure the yeast, molassess, salt and hot tap water into a large steel bowl. The recipe is so familiar I have no need to retrieve the small brown bread book from its resting place. I dump some flour in, watching the cream colored mountain break up into icebergs and then disappear in the rythmic circling of my fork. I can see the gluten start to gather, I imagine a conga line of gluten people and laugh. I pour another, smaller mountain of flour on the table, and scrape my infant dough into it. I gently fold it in on itself, bathing it in milk-powder flour. I massage it out, and repeat. Kneading the bread is not zen-like. It IS zen. I feel the changing tension under my unrelentless knuckles and know that it has had enough. I lay it to rest in it's steel cradle, tenderly tucking a clean, hot, damp dishtowel around the firm, resisting ball. A couple hours later I pull crisp crusted brown loaves out of the oven and slice in, revealing tender steaming hot bread. Pale yellow butter soaks into the sturdy, grainy surface. It is good.