Dim sun, your soft
floury edges today
make me think of steam
clouds under a wicker basket,
pillowy mounds of dough
pulled into a pucker
atop sweet or savory buns…
Let the glittery icicles
on twigs and branches trade
their hard-edged, fishnet-
stockinged gossip above us all,
here at an oilcloth-covered table
in a little hole in the wall
where the air is fragrant
with ginger and scallions
and dark plum sauce.
—Luisa A. Igloria
02.04.2011
In response to today’s entry at Moving Poems.
Fantastic, Luisa!
Congrats on reaching the 50th post (54th poem) in the series!
Woot! Calls for a dim sum dinner!
Yum. :-)