i have stopped by woods on a snowy evening.
it’s a sublime slanting sun, and,
camera in hand,
i come upon the hoped-for scene.
the reaching trees, silhouettes of bareness.
the furnace of the sun,
a smudge of burnt orange behind the ridge,
imparts the hue, the twilight blue
to the mile long shadows
these striations in the crunchy glitter.
i click and click with frantic abandon,
not wanting to lose this singular zenith of beauty.
how many shots? a hundred? a thousand?
i will take them home
enhance them, adobe them, candy coat them
until they look, they look…
like those coffee table books that no one reads.
so, i turn to go, my anticipation tempered now.
i look back once more, in regret.
the deep blue shadows slowly lengthen
as the sun pours dark red lava down the hillside.
i stop. upon a stump i sit.
there is longevity here.
longevity of blessed bliss.
and, now i know why those beautiful heavy books
have sticky pages and dusty covers
pristine of fingerprints.