love to love the gloves (and cloves)

This is my first post – quite obviously.
I spent the better half of the day figuring out the image upload.

Well. The cold has its bright side:

Recently returned from a long and happy journey, our luna di miele across date lines and seasons (the gloves, the mittens), unions and farewells: a wife! I stopped, and the winter flu got me before it was rightfully due.

So now, away from work (from studios, benches, desks, studies, everyday sounds of people), spending time in the suburban silence. Lying down in a semilit space, listening through muffled senses and aching everything, and then making soup for mending.

Garlic, pumpkin, a slash of knife: there is a world inside the common veg. The fresh cuts reveal ovals and arches, such pleasure in observing random repetition. And the day old shrinkage and drying pumpkin seeds, beauty in decay (or, did I hear hello middle age? By the stove, I was, but not pregnant; barefoot perhaps yes).

I had been thinking about gold. Could these shapes turn into metal, object, ornament?
I'd like to try.

White, gold, gray, the pumpkin yellow. The warped white winter suns.
The mangled flowers. The dying, drying, curling and rounding.
My kitchen blooms.