The ritual of placing the bottle of cannabis in a cup of warm water, Frida's eyes, the coconut oil relinquishing into the drawing up, just so, that tiny bit, 1.2 milliliters per syringe, not a murder (crows), a grist (bees), nor a rookery (albatross) or a bloat (rhinoceroses) but a group of them, nestled in a blue fertile cup, the Lone Ranger keeping guard.
I am gobsmacked by this liquid gold.
Visual and written poetry. Elemental and visceral. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThank you. Coming from you, that means the world.
Deletei am gobsmacked by your poetry, too.
ReplyDeletehow did you arrive at the right dosage?
We tinker all the time. We have found that a small dose works better for Sophie. Lots of trail and error, though, and it's ongoing.
DeleteA very life-giving still life.
ReplyDeleteAnd honestly, Elizabeth- I have a butcher block thing in the middle of my kitchen with two wicker bar stools beside it. Frida is everywhere in my kitchen and I have an arrangement of blue hydrangea just a few feet away. I am a bit gobsmacked myself at the very familiarity of this scene. Without the cannabis.
And I wished you lived next door. We'd have so much fun in our kitchens!
DeleteLovely writing, Elizabeth. And moving. And a really beautiful photo to look at, too. And why am I not surprised that you and Mary have very similar kitchens?
ReplyDeleteThanks, Andrea. And yes, I think Mary and I have a bit of the same thing going on with a west coast/east coast perspective.
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