A fresh cement of wintry mix traversed by chipmunks, tails italic with urgency. Ice-coated branches rock in the wind—a cellophane sound.


  1. Love “a cellophane sound”. Took me straight back to my childhood.

  2. Letter to Rubbermaid and Tupperware

    Dear aggregate of semi-synthetic solids, dear
    clear acrylic, polyester, silicone, polyurethane
    or halogenated plastics; menagerie of molded
    food boxes separated from their lids and falling
    to the floor as I root around in the kitchen
    cabinets– I’m certain my ancestors could not
    have had the same early morning dilemmas
    as I do: where to stash that bit of leftover
    scrambled egg or steel-cut oatmeal, which
    cute snack holder will keep the grade-
    schooler’s cut-up kiwi and blueberries
    from spilling and turning the bottom of her
    book bag into a mulch of paper and fruit.
    Outside, chipmunks traverse a fresh cement of
    wintry mix, their tails italic with urgency.
    A bento box holds carrot flower cups and
    shiso leaves against neat rows of jeweled rice.
    Here, shelves of ice-coated branches rattle
    in the wind; unrolled, how far east would their
    cellophane sheets reach? On highland trails
    in my childhood home, woodsmen make
    their way to town with provisions in leaf-
    lined baskets: boiled shoots and purple yams,
    salads of curly fern; dried venison and quail
    fermented with smoke, salted with dew.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    02 21 2011

  3. Luisa,
    Your last six lines make me nostalgic for the old Mountain Province of my lost years. I see them, too, walking along the trails, the swarthy woodsmen—yams, rice, quail eggs, wild pigeon meat (pagao), with their bamboo baskets neatly balanced on their bare backs, a motley of colour on the women’s skirts, and rainbow threads on the male G-strings flapping in the terrace winds. They did not have tupperware then nor ziplocs.


    Cackles of geese flying north break
    the late morning sounds of creaking,
    icecoated branches rocking in the wind.
    Another storm gathers, and the winged
    migrants leave for warmer spaces.

    O, for sturdy wings, and a squadron
    of kindred souls flying out of arctic regard!
    Warmer times, warmer places, other
    voices, other rooms: I long for those old
    cellophane sounds of shear curtains
    brushing against the chimes lavish
    with their tinkles until the wind dies down.
    Odd, but with hurt urgency, I hear them.

    — Albert B. Casuga

  5. I read that one to my fiance across the breakfast table.
    She REALLY liked it. (me too!)

    1. Thanks, Evan. In my rush to post, I mis-spelled “sheer curtains” (notnot “shear”). I am happy you and your fiance liked it (and to think I am the third person in your breakfast table!) (:0)

  6. It started a whole discussion of
    daily writing habit
    Jack London’s morning routine
    Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hrs rule
    the Ted Talk given by Elizabeth Gilbert, on muses

    1. If one’s habit does not ride one down, it must be a good one. As a physics teacher, you will find that logic full of holes, but I am sure you suscribe to the habit of a renaissance man. Poetry across the breakfast table? I’ll eat my cereal first, though. (:-))

Comments are closed.