9/30/21
9/29/21
H O R T E N C I A
You bring them in, a trug of thundercloud,
neglected in long grass and the sulk
of a wet summer. Now a weight of wet silk
in my arms like her blue dress, a load
of night-inks shaken from their hair –
her hair a flame, a shadow against light
as long ago she leaned to kiss goodnight
when downstairs was a bright elsewhere
like a lost bush of blue hydrangeas.
You found them, lovely, silky, dangerous,
their lapis lazulis, their indigoes
tide-marked and freckled with the rose
of death, beautiful in decline.
I touch my mother’s skin. Touch mine.
Blue Hydrangeas, September Gillian Clarke
9/26/21
9/25/21
9/17/21
9/11/21
9/6/21
8/25/21
T h e E n d of a R o l l 2 0 2 0 : Revealing Himself He Imagined Becoming A Cloud
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all . . .
Both Sides Now Joni Mitchell
8/20/21
7/25/21
7/24/21
“Good photography, or any other manifestation in man, comes from a state of grace. Grace comes when you are delivered from conventions, obligations, conveniences, competition, and you are free, like a child in his first discovery of reality. You walk around in surprise, seeing reality as if for the first time.”
Sergio Larrain
7/20/21
7/17/21
7/13/21
7/10/21
7/7/21
6/23/21
6/19/21
6/18/21
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