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.
Spring day in February
Hurt, ache, dispersed…and, now whisked away for just one day.
A particular release that no written word can negate.
The aroma of hope absorbed in cedar turns from scent to sound.
Magic in enjoying languid moments…
relishing in standing still with no chill, no longer a myth.
There is music in loving winter when it decides to go.
In the dark months, I attempt to realize not ‘everything is in my mind.’
In the light of now…when wind turns to breeze, my feet dare not touch the ground.
A fleeting thought as the sun goes down,
‘when the weather changes…never be the last to know.’
I ask, ‘what good is a word…wrapped in barbwire?‘
It is expression squeezed dry of color.
Cross-words lacking landscape…deprivation in an isolated world.
An imperfect storm in which memory is unfurled.
All this language bantered about with the hue of integrity bleeding out.
When will childhood become a Polaroid from the past?
Words, words, words, ugly…looking to get further down the road.
Not knowing where they were first planted.