My Photographs.

My Photographs

There is no patience here like

Single blocks of geese.  Temptation is

Wrought with food and ill,

Blinded by the temporary pain in my right foot.

Nothing is sacred as a photograph,

So still it seems to capture the sentience of

Life.

My father would have been proud of my photographs,

That I take each and every day on my journeys

Walking from place to place, to the park, to the

Grocery store, even to the neighbor’s yard,

He has a huge tree in the front, that bears

The plums of summer.

And it was summer. 

A red-hot Indian summer

In the middle of September,

And everyone was waiting for it to start to

Get cool, and the trees to change their colors-

Red, yellow, brown.  Then the snow would fly

And Christmas would follow.

Yes, my father was proud of my photographs,

Especially the ones I sent out to everybody

For our Christmas cards.  They were especially

Special to me.