The photographic eye helps one observe something closer and deeper, rather like the poet’s ear. I’ve spent an hour or two this evening mulling over the miracle of the multiple processes of unfolding in our garden. And in me.
I would love to live
Like a river flows,
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.
Me too. I think he did, and I think he was, and probably still is.
I’ve just been gazing upon a photograph of my elderly father beaming upon my smiling infant granddaughter. Perichoresis.
I think they do, and I think they both are, too.