Abandoned
substituer à peindre
substituer à peindre
February 8th 2013
Crocus
Tulip & the firmament
Tulips
An Orchid
Sunset
Testing the ice
Frozen
Feb 25th 2007
At Farmer's Market
Winter Tree
Crossing
Art Gallery
Exterior
Beharrlich
Passage
The Black Burnswickers [1860]
Autumn foliage
The Road
Lilly
Petunia
Musician
Artist
Cloudy
Survival
Sunrise
Toadstools
Red Breasted Grosbeak
Weather report
I found a weed
Nefyn
Tweety
Queue
Downtown
Water - conspicious consumption
Sunset
Walking in Sunshine
Dark Hours
Misgivings
Peace of Wild Things
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I am not shaving, I’m writing about it.
And I conjure the most elaborate idea—
how my beard is a creation of silent labor
like ocean steam rising to form clouds,
or the bloom of spiderwebs each morning;
the discrete mystery of how whiskers grow,
like the drink roses take from the vase,
or the fall of fresh rain, becoming
a river, and then rain again, so silently.
I think of all these slow and silent forces
and how quietly my father’s life passed us by.
I think of those mornings, when I am shaving,
and remember him in a masquerade of foam, then,
as if it was his beard I took the blade to,
the memory of him in tiny snips of black whiskers
swirling in the drain—dead pieces of the self
from the face that never taught me how to shave.
His legacy of whiskers that grow like black seeds
sown over my cheek and chin, my own flesh.
I am not shaving, but I will tell you about the mornings
with a full beard and the blade in my hand,
when my eyes don’t recognize themselves
in a mirror echoed with a hundred faces
I have washed and shaved—it is in that split second,
when perhaps the roses drink and the clouds form,
when perhaps the spider spins and rain transforms,
that I most understand the invisibility of life
and the intensity of vanishing, like steam
at the slick edges of the mirror, without a trace.
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