(Click on first photo to enlarge all) There is a poem after the photos. Someone just suggested I note that here because he didn’t notice it the first time he looked at this post.
Circle of sunlight, orb of the moon. Each of their passages over too soon. What we may find as the day or the night gives over to nature in its swift flight is only the present. It isn’t forever. No matter how talented, selfless or clever we’ve fashioned ourselves, we’ll all come around to serve our real purpose, to nurture the ground.
Time chisels away with its constant cruel rasp. The hold of a lover loses its grasp. Circles of friends are too quickly diminished. Everything started soon seems to be finished. Each rolling stone must encounter a wall. The dough of the universe rolled in a ball still lives by the edict that rules us all. Whatever has risen is certain to fall.
The very stuff of the bodies we live in are atomic circlings that we’ve been given to use for awhile before giving them back to continue their course on whatever the track is the larger extension of what we’ve been given— the next destination to which we’ll be driven. This circle we live from year’s start to December is simply the circle that we can remember, most of us hoping we’ll be up to par for inclusion in nature’s recycling bazaar.
Before it had been pillaged–scraped and torn and rent,
nature had a dignity everywhere you went.
A hill remained a hillside and a stream remained a stream.
This was before the elements began their silent scream—
long before the advent of smog and acid rain—
before our exploitation of the earth became inane
with our damming and our digging, our culling and our raping—
before we had created a world that needs escaping.
Now we thrust out into space to find another place to plunder
to repeat inane histories. To ruin and tear asunder.
Any new place that we find, thinking it a haven,
will soon be altered as before with acts as crudely craven.
We do not learn our lessons. We never quite atone
for messing into matters we should have left alone.
Like children picking at a scab, then worrying the sore,
we’ll frack the universe apart and crack it at its core.