A Jawbone for You, And For Me, a Ribcage

Poetry is everywhere. And no, that’s not the most original line anyone has ever written, but it makes perfect truth out of blindness and illiteracy. We are not illiterate in the sense of reading and writing, but in the visual world of imagery. Can one truly argue the cause for those elements they notice in a photograph? Are they capable of reasoning why the next mountains shot in Yosemite will not demonstrate a perfect snow cover? And what about the portraits of Leibovitz? Of Avedon? Steiglitz? O, red wheelbarrow, where are you now. And when a picture fades into the past, does it fade from memory as moments drift away like leaflets of a maple? Or do they stagger to the ground like those shredded eucalyptus? And when all of those images settle into a cove, bones from deer, antlers and all will we bury them more? On the side of highways and roads that lead to nowhere, will those who will treat what our past has accomplished, dissatisfied with our effort to preserve theirs, disregard our belongings, and leave it be? Or will they brush off the earthenware instruments, listen to each one-thousand words, and bring about the change we so wished to seek in ourselves yet were too distracted by the simplicity of light to make..