Agriculture is our wisest pursuit, because it will in the end contribute most to real wealth, good morals, and happiness…
Diggin in the dirt, awash in green carpet, tryin to find where I belong.
It is clear, through the snorts and whistles, I am not a contender.
Just a sloppy pretender!
And, if I stand very still, scatterings of flies thwart my will.
Diggin in the dirt to find where I belong.
Bathing in tranquility,
basking in my own glow.
Silly swine cannot be wrong.
Moving the earth, as they do, in such a modest fashion.
I am but a bystander who has praised words of woe and purity. And, I have tried tampering at the landscape! And, I am unwilling to give up on a valiant fight.
These Lilacs that espouse only once a year. These Periwinkles of cascading yearly trials. These Lavenders, offspring to the garish New Hampshire late winter weather, confuse and excite all the same.
I wish to only hold these thoughts but once a year. As a Lilac comes slowly, leaves quickly. Its romance lingers on aesthetics and colorful fear.
Plotting and potting, the toil, I say this quickly. For with earnest steps the springtime will go.
Learn to breathe again…
never hold love against the old stables and fresher flora.
In the depths of all vanity intertwined, such as, vines to a tree…
I promise to embrace your beauty as fleeting as it may be.
Moist the air that brings to light…cedar chips and all it delights
While cantankerous fowl sweet-talk to be gods of the sky
Eyes open wide while I release the shutters of months left behind
This passage of rites, fool hardy?
Nudged, I arise to this transformation of movement
So, when it stirs, I stir
When it darkens I lament
Made when the east knew the west…a Voigtländer…
leather-bound, brownie brown.
A gift, an offering to an auspicious, stranger’s eyes.
He had been my Camera Man who disguised aperture with millimeter umbrage and bleached palette in hand.
Fervent in tethering a child’s focus.
My present day…
dark rooms notwithstanding…remain.
Atonement’s of vignettes…bland with impressions.
The Camera Man…close up and personable as, kin.
That is when edges infinity…began.
No use in seeing the scenery differently today.
Visions are me
I am they.
There is an alcove to what they may to say.
In the dark room…where the Camera Man lives and plays.
When people smile to themselves in the street, when I see the face of an ugly man or uninteresting woman light up…
I wonder from what visions within those smiles are reflected; from what footlights, what gay and incredible scenes they gleam of glory and triumph.
Logan Pearsall Smith