79. Poetry of life

As a boy raised by artists, the poetry of life was inescapable.  When Mother played Debussy on the piano or Dad played a recording of Gershwin’s „An American In Paris,“ this was nothing less than audible poetry. Grandmother’s watermelon rind pickles, the crisp cloves exploding with each crunchy bite, tasted poetic. And when Mother immersed the house ceiling to floor in painted coats of vivid color, the surface shades spoke to us as visual poets. / Rawlins Gilliland, Kera News