The maple leaf stops them. Its veiny palm invites examination, as peach and pale green cross shades. Autumn does this to maple leaves; scorns their attempts to cling onto their tree of birth, strikes them down, flattens their flame. And then, somebody finds the leaf, finds charm in its crown-like edges, its slight resemblance to thorns.
the sand stepping-stones
of a shuffling huddle,
or shifting land –
a clinking crowd at ground.
When the sand draws you down to its grainy heart, you have to keep control of your feet, lift them, before they sink completely. This, I found out while walking on the beach at Ardmore with my husband and baby daughter. I was posing for a lighthearted picture and somehow my daughter’s buggy stayed firm, while the sand crept up over my ballet pumps.
I find the river. I feel the walk beneath my soles. The sky holds a spreading heat and I follow the light into the water, where it dapples, moves through green weed and over stones. A fish startles to life and I see him flick through the depths.
The pale yellow, shell-like construction of a daffodil . . . My niece presents me with the flower, along with a handful of catkins. The catkins draw my senses with their animal texture and my heart twists. This pure gesture stands out as my world continues to revolve with change. I take a sheet of blank paper, arrange the flowers, like a sketch. Every element has a shadow. I note the light and the darkness, capture them with my camera.