Through the kitchen, dining room, living room, my office.
We're in the moment of flow. FD in the dining room, me in my office.
Working on creating, sipping red wine, finding words for things.
Dinner was at the table. Us relaxing, lingering on things,
much of which was art, the act of creation--from poems to eggplant gratin to Earth to turnip soup.
Long after forks toasted their plates in a last bite, we sat, talking, the rain
a mere percussion for the guitar and harmonica.
If you're not careful, I'm going to get used to you blogging again...
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