Off to the Ozarks today to see if the color has progressed there. A few more photos from my recent excursion. I can only process a few at a time as my disk space is maxed on my computers, and the Nikon RAW image format, NEF, takes up an enormous amount of space.
I need to burn CDs of the photos on my machines and clear them out, but I’ve not had time recently with working on the IT Kitchen and other projects.
I’ve not had much time lately for poetry, either. Most other writing, too, other than technology, and politics, and weblogging. I feel as dry and dusty as the Missouri forests were before this week’s rain. I look to see if starved and desperate insects hover over me as they do the shriveled late summer blooms amidst leaves dying on the trees. I must begin drinking again.
As Mark Strand recently won the Wallace Stevens award, I thought something of his would be appropriate. Something that seems to suit the photos.
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.
The Coming of Light