photography
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It’s Friday, which is supposed to mean something—and I suppose it does, to those people. The ones I imagine still belong to the Thank-God-It’s-Friday congregation. Their voices rise like smoke from a distant fire I can no longer smell. But at fifty-seven, when there’s so little left to kill, Friday arrives like fog along a
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Have you ever loved a photograph? Not the person.The paper. Corners curled.Edges yellow.Your fingerprints pressed into it—again, again. A relic.A prayer. Flat image—yet it breathes.Two into three.Three into somethinguntouched by time. I fall inside.Invent the dialogue.Score the silence.Make the light softerthan it ever was. The picture forgiveswhat memory could not. I keep too many.They hold
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“The Color of Rest on Sunday”…after Frost It’s Sunday, and the day waits at my window,A silent usher in woolen light.The world, hushed at the seams, has started,But I have not. I sit, not ready yet. Two birds,One, blue with a black-stitched back,The other, cinnamon-flecked and frosted,Chatter in three-four time, a waltz on the limb.Their
BB Grey--musings 