I spent last weekend looking. At my son.
At the wave action of creek water over
a rock and how the light and shadows
created a kind of pointilist Chuck Closian
painting on the surface. At huge mid
western type corn fields sprawling
across New York plains. At my son's
friends huddled around the firepit, their
faces lit and young. I spent the time
wanting to take a photograph of all of it
as if this could be a record of something
or a practice that could hold back danger.
To burn or carve a poem that captures
these days, that makes something of them
so they're not lost or forgotten or taken away.