Copyright © 2012 Deborah M. Zajac. All Rights Reserved

This poem Mist Valley
by James Longenbach came to my mind when I came across this old photo of mine a few days ago.

At the end of August, when all
The letters of the alphabet are waiting,
You drop a teabag in a cup.
The same few letters making many different words,
The same words meaning different things.

Often you’ve rearranged them on the surface of the fridge.
Without the surface
They’re repulsed by one another.

Here are the letters.
The tea is in your cup.

At the end of August, the mind
Is neither the pokeweed piercing the grass
Nor the grass itself.
As Tony Cook says in The Biology of Terrestrial Mollusks

The right thing to do is nothing, the place
A place of concealment,
And the time as often as possible.

Nikon D700| Nikkor 17-35@26mm| f11| 1/60sec| ISO 200| Manual Priority| Tripod