Enga mellom fjella

idako, inari, hotate gai, tobiko

Idako

We glow orange against the rice.
Eight arms pickled, wrapped in nori,
plucked from the sea, we never grow up.

Inari

I pocket white on rice
in my slit tan purse.
Like vinager to my sugar.

Hotate gai

I clasped my shells close,
clapped them to flee.
I sit on your plate.
I was caught, you see.

Tobiko

Orange gold beads
salty to taste
cling to each other,
to chopsticks and plates.

© 2008 Kåre Enga [165.262a,b,c,d] 2008-09-10

I haven't written much this past week. With two "issues" of Sushi and moving, I just haven't. idako = pickled octopus, inari = tofu pocket, hotate gai = scallop, tobiko = roe.

ME:

I walked to the Orange Street food store, bought milk, found ripe pears on the way back, ate one that had fallen to the ground. Saw some sparrows and plucked a sprig of something blooming purple. By the dumpster saw three abandoned geraniums in pots. Gave them a home.

That's my day so far.

Some days are just boring.

BLOGVILLE:

I responded to KimChi :

Writers need readers. But ... if thou desirest to be considered a writer, thou must write!

Roses have thorns, violets turn black.
I wish I'd have worn my old comfy slacks!

That would be me on the bus ... at the ballgame ...

I really enjoyed her entry: "Invalid Entry" 

Then the leaves scuttled over my feet to remind me of impermance. Finally, wind tousled my hair in a gesture of goodbye. They were polite, understanding, but they weren't sad at all. Nature is true to itself, turning and swirling to it's own rhythm. It is prepared to turn the wheel, accepting of its fate.

Montana: 79º at 16:00.

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