Today I rubbed black paint into the surface
of fishbowl-shaped vessels, onto the image
of a dandelion gone to seed. Scritch scratch.
Black-splotched fingers. (I get paid to do this.)
When M. announced that she had made her
spinach soup, a cheer rose from our crowd-of-four
because today it was winter, again.
Perhaps we should dine on gazpacho on Thursday
when summer arrives with a nearly fifty-degree
temperature change predicted.
Wool, or cotton? Goretex or linen?