The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
(from The Harvest Bow)
… and here we are again. The season… of compelling beauty. I’m drawn to it’s forms and shadows… textured decay and frail life in color and light. Too soon gone again.