Creative Scraps

In between printed pages of roasted root
vegetable recipes and fragments of discarded
poems that litter my unused dining room table
lie more pulp and ink than I feel comfortable
admitting to. Despite my ability to read and save
more and more on-line, I still savor the touch
and texture of paper. And my filing system,
though a model for how-not-to-do-it, still
remains a tactile exercise that somehow
works and best of all yields some interesting
surprises.

Mixed in with the piles of this and that
are glimpses here and there of who I want
to be then and now. “Tonight I Will Paint
My Toenails Blue” (the first and only line
of a poem I’m writing) lies on top of “Transforming
Jealousy of Other Women into Feminine Power”
(by Sara Avant Stover), alongside two different
recipes for brandied pumpkin pie and
several severed pages of
The New York Times Sunday paper
supposedly saved for use as scrap material
for poems and painting.

Even I amaze myself with all that I save to
inspire a creative life in a 150 year-old
blue farmhouse that has seen its own share
of abundance and loss, gardens and graves,
hard working farmers and a kooky spirited artist.
So as I take the time, (3:00 am-ish), to sort
through piles, stack, file, discard now or
save-to-discard-later-while-writing-more-to-save,
I wonder again at all these possibles in my life
heaped up on my old oak table and decide
to save the one-line poem and jettison one
brandied pumpkin pie recipe. Thanksgiving
is over, and I am on to clipping custard recipes
and finishing “My Journey to Artistry.”

~~~

close to solstice
a fragment of moon
in a fragment of poem

~~~

ag ~ December 2015

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