Some are from yesterday and some from this morning. They, like the clouds, are afloat. Art as Hearth Jane gives me a play by play of her tour through New York MOMA. There are no “situations,” only a viewing of all levels, as people move, organic as art. I, on the west coast, out on my deck, might also be viewed as art, as helicopters thump overhead entertaining tourists, and offending buzzards, the bleachers of the sky. Propellers whirl and flap, flap, flap, like playing cards on bicycles. I wonder what people perceive as they look down on me. Do they see dots and squares, a pyramid or balloon, or do they see me, a bare chemo head, offered like a moon, to spoon. The Olive Trees Viewing the painting by van Gogh, “The Olive Trees,” I am caught on the angel in the clouds, her heart like a pumpkin, or gourd, waiting to open to light, and I’m tangled in the roots of the trees, roots like feet stomping the ground, to make wine, where all flows into the stream, and is caught on the lining the angel, with grace, untwines - The Poem A journey inside a glass globe where snow shaken is touched in its fall. The Meal Ingest, salivate over words at meals, moisten and taste each sound as it descends to the heart and gut where it blends. Today my heart this morning a round ball pumping the well of being with hands and feet that are part of the whole - how can we not see the roundness of our being the circle we make the circle of energy reaching out like Leonardo’s drawing to connect hands, head, and feet. There, are tears - wonder - awe - This Morning Two clouds peek over the hill like eyes and the way the light is stoked, at first, I think they are suns, except they are in the opposite place like shadow for shade - and now they fade - It was only a moment. The river glides by - Sunrise in Ixtapa the sun touches the rocks held by the sea ochre rises like the beat of the heart, blood pulsing through arteries, filling the veins.