i met a man who could not see any colour. though i love to see colour, i didn't pity; the man with no colour was good as any. he lived his way, making this world his own. he wasn't disabled in any way. nobody knows what other senses he may have had. he wasn't talking about such things. perhaps there is no way to speak of unshared visions. we all walk alone.
is it never beautiful when it looks out of focus? focus is certainty. and we seem to like it. but is it ever to be really trusted? too much time in easy chairs might make my back ache. sometimes i need to find a less comfortable pastime. i need to refocus on certainty and learn to see the never seen, and maybe understand beyond focus, where there are different beauties.
yesterday's flower at the north end of a sunbeam, some things seem never outdated. but yesterday's sunshine has lost its meaning, relevance and excitement, colours fading now. as i look out the window, i see winter approach. a chill already blights the morning light.
on hands and knees i twist and stretch looking for an image i could love, up above it all, a golden light cruises overhead. but shadows move imperceptably slowly. so things change. i see no movement, and so it is. my vision has no great value. i do not matter. and there it is! the very thing i wanted, picture of joy, summer on a screen. i'll put it on a page. someone will surely love it. so i like to think, anyways
Colchicum 2 dancing shadows on a wall... (we do not see so well at all) grafitti on a train rolls by. if thoughts had wings perhaps they'd fly. i wonder what you think i said; i do not know what's in your head. spots on a page might tell a tale, but will they tell it very well? dancing shadows on a wall, we do not see so well at all.
From the Good Earth everything of true value has come (born beautiful) from the good earth. i look again at her rich garden, see that it is good, (as you know). troubles vanish as i bury my fingers in rich dark earth. again, troubles vanish. everything of true value has come (born beautiful) from the good earth.
green fruit as tiny as that i would not eat it on a bet up close as this it seems to have a certain beauty but there is also mystery i do not even know its common name i see it green, in fall, and know things change whether or not i understand.
bright colours bright days thinning smoke, unknown flower hardly any honeybees... smokey summer air, like dust itchy eyes dry sore throat and awful lonely days i have to say i'm sorry i don't know this wet flower's name, and may as well tell you that i didn't spray it for the shot and had to desaturate to look real because beauty never has to pretend.
autumn, in our garden is still a lively place things change as the light begins to fail while now, honey bees, are back and colchicum suddenly comes up (we had forgotten) from distant fires imported smoke has come again fueled by dry things, untended by some who do not care. our world burns up they think it is their world. but i don't care whose name is on their deed. (their smoke is ours)
again i find myself ignorant: this unusual flower i do not know, or if it is a cluster or sole blossom. smoke outside hangs heavy in the valley. distant fires choke our feeble breath. we struggle like the suddenly silent birds. climate change and smoke, have us cornered, already hiding out from this horrible pandemic we find little comfort. a little beauty helps...