take_time_to_eat_the_roses raze here's a taste of what my father feeds the fridge: masterly saints of transportation. a monarch of grizzlies. the rickety legs of a recycling truck. it's like walking into a jaded retreat with held whistle. a woman is here, sitting out book covers, tugging them for the tan. she follows him into a much, much murkier land and eats what she's owed. 250721 ... epitome of incomprehensibility Funny that this should come up today, when I contemplated but did not accomplish a thing near to this. My dad and I were walking the dog. We passed some rose bushes, some on private property but others in Pine Beach Park along the shore, where a few rosehips had reached orangey-pink maturity. "I wish I had a container. I would pick a few," I said about the ones at the park. Dad said, "You could pick one, take it home and look it up, see what it is." "Da-ad! I *know* what they are." And I talked about biting into a rosehip, how it has an apple's texture but an orange's taste (or so my memory serves (it to) me), but you can only chew the outer edges because the middle is so full of seeds. That's why it's used more for jellies and flavouring. But such a sweet taste...and I didn't dare to savour one unwashed. (Which one of us was unwashed? The one who rhymes with ability and has trouble doing things. But that's both of us. These hips lie idle.) 250721 what's it to you? who go blather from