I drive every morning past the woods. The trees are sirens but I go on. Clouds and light make me wish for canvas and paint and some idea of what I might do with them but then there are plans for this day. I have mine and it has its own.
In the end it is not a plan, it's only squash, fennel, onions, and the one certainty -- some kind of dough, which takes a very long hour. We sit and wait (Edith Piaf) and then I am moved in such a way that things seem to come together on their own accord and I am reminded that there are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
No comments:
Post a Comment