Nothing like a poetry class to get me using my camera.
Also, I'm about to get swept off cafe cafe poetry blog.
Just now noticed my winter snapshots look a bit uterine
as if there's this snowglobe maybe hidden in my abdomen
filled with water for oxygen, talk about your particles and waves!
I haven't had the chance to tell you my ethereal dreams:
blizzardesque and tilting, forward and backward,
cerulean blue alcove just behind the curved glass lens.
The skylight presupposes an endless search. Also, binoculars.
Wild geese overhead with their maps and compasses.
We look up to them and lip-read silent words of stars
or snow or even dust from birds. Our progress thwarted,
we fail to understand the maelstrom of constellations.
Three/quarters of the universe is frozen, the rest up in flames.
Our first clothing nothing more than blankets of smoke.
Newborn air has all this symbolic strength, coming,
as it does, from babies-breath and the biology of leaves.
Beflowered wind has got us lifted out of half-states.
Something like a winter garden only indoors and full-blown.