(songs of yesteryear)
7 September, 2:27 pm, ne 59th avenue, Portland
It is silent save for the burbling of brown rice. I hear the froths, the drips of steam collected and singe splashing against the burner of a distasteful electric range. And outside, the snipping of branches like of the rose and such, those which hang and throw themselves after the rains to block the walk just south, outside the window, of where I sit. Oh! I really just yelped there; I felt my mind’s eye wander back and behind me, through the open window and into the aforementioned walk, where ARMK clips clips away. I envisioned him and then lo, a begloved hand holds a perfect perfumed rose of the palest pink before me. I did happen to cry out in surprise, as my expectant mind was, just then, in the walkway south of the window. I see the steam rising, waiting for the rice to finish its process. And then, to dine on such delicious stew! I used kale (after de-aphiding and sadly disposing of many, many long curled leaves) and two small beets from the garden, as well as a sweet potato, lovely little onions & garden garlic, cabbage, fennel seed, ground mustard & cayenne. Oh! In this kitchen the light is common to change, and the day hasn’t yet appeared in rain, nor would I hasten to call portland anything drab. Is it sad for me to not capitalize the town in which I live? It doesn’t mean I no longer feel it so!!
Drinking in yerba maté chai, and autumn begins wholeheartedly. I want to fall in love with mine again, and will.
