A True Story:
M and I stood in swarms of mosquitoes on the side of a mountain in a slippery pile of ankle breaking talus to photograph wildflowers — she whipped out her wide angle lens and I chose my trusty, rusty 50mm. We shared our photographic secrets freely, laughed a lot and she swatted a million bugs (they don’t seem to care for me like they do her). There was so much softness captured: softness of petals, softness of light, softness of the baring bright of souls…
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We don’t need many.
No one does.
A few true is enough.
A few true who allow that softness,
make room for it (as it billows and consumes
the quiet of spaces)
and beam it brilliantly back
into the palms of open hands,
into the quiet corners.
You can choose to see.
You can choose not to see.
But if you choose to see,
there is a second choice to make therein:
to see deeper, to see harder, to sometimes strain,
but always to illuminate.
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On that talus,
you can let the weight slide off,
down the mountain,
like so many tumbling pieces of granite and fir.
Tumbling.
Turning.
Turning to sand in the sun.
Disappearing in the hungry mouths of wind and water.
