The Love Note to 2014, January 26th to the 1st of February

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I love:
the creak of leather,
its acceptance and resistance to all the twists of use,
this wisdom, which old leather has accrued.

I love:
cotton, worn to ghostly softness, before the fibers part.

I love that scientists admitted umami, a savory fifth taste upon the tongue alongside sweet, bitter, sour, salt.

I love the clumsiness of talk of tastes and flavors,
a language to be made that we've not made yet,
but which Monica speaks so wordlessly.

Bushy Beard lichen - Usnea strigosa

Read the rest below . . .

From January 5, a love note . . .

I love:

the cold so bitingly mad that wind-tossed branches clack together as metal rods.

the mist-drizzle needles' subcutaneous dance in the blood-heat of my cheeks.

the gray, wet, chill air, which can be snatched away like a magician-scarf to shock me into knowing light and sun-warmth.

I love:

the arrogance of chickadees and tufted titmice - tiny, feathered, fearless, dinosaurian.

the skepticism of cats.

how Irish stout will not be rushed - whose churn from foamy brown to velvet black forces one to wait and contemplate.

I love the victory of laughter over shyness.

I love that moment when a friend averts their eyes - to gather the threads of the story they intend to tell -  and we lean in to catch it.

the resonance of raindrops doinking gently on my black and broad-brimmed Amish hat.

I love that toads live in our cellar - warty house guards who take crickets and bring good luck - or so I'm happy to believe.

the eight-eyed spiders who stalk prey in high corners and leave no cobweb behind.  Jumping spiders - too quick - I love their way of moving - jerky little teleports.

I love the sunbeam that re-makes a room to a sudden work of art.

my wife's drowsy, feline pleasure in the warmth of slanting sunshine.

I love a joke well-told.

I love the solving of a riddle, that moment when the rigid, false facade collapses and an unexpected figure strides smiling forth.

I love:

the migration of birds

the orioles squabbling in Costa Rican palms while juncos forfeit their taiga to claim these rich south woods of winter.

the dormancy of things that stay - creatures burrowed deep to sleep.

the fierce biding of stemless roots and leafless twigs.

the genius of a queen bee, hot within her cluster, sipping summer's honey.