Seasons don’t take turns; in the South, as one, all merge as if to purge preconceived notions. Harmony is the bloom in autumn, the colors the frost will kiss, the sound of the ocean never frozen. Peace still exists.
I have been absolutely entranced and obsessed with the changing eucalyptus leaves in my backyard. I pass a lot of time observing and listening to them through my lens. I know the poetry each one heart-strums inside me, but no words could ever do these images justice. I will let the poetry speak directly to you instead, for so personal and intimate to me are what these leaves and tree portray… I hope you can see and hear it, too, as it pertains to you. ❤
Some chambers of the heart cannot be revived, but somehow, in time, the others manage to thrive, filling in with extra color and light, like fall delicately preserved despite the returning of spring, some things simply adapt inside, like a damaged heart that syncs to another’s beat, incapable of replacing or restoring that part but giving new life to a deserved and beautiful heart.
Another fallen blossom… like the ones before in years passed I photographed and told stories for.
Each of these moves me in such profound ways; what’s underfoot, what others pass, stops me in my tracks with the silent beauty so profoundly displayed.
For a lifetime, I feel I could sit and contemplate, reflect on all the lessons and secrets it portrays…
This is how I know I’m different, for off the beaten path, tucked away, alone in nature is my happiest place.
The soft morning light haloing the fallen lady bids me pay respect and paint legacy allegories.
Not as sad as the last one I payed homage to, (but of course that is influenced by my inner untappable currents and current surface mood, no doubt, in turn, affected by the recent tides and moon…) this fallen beauty, still so poised, fills me with bittersweet truths,
for we, the best things, this life itself… all fleeting, all blossoms plucked by breezes in the grand scheme of it all, these hundred years if we are lucky (but who’s to say that’s luck when we know not what’s next and beyond; perhaps those taken early were needed for something else, angels only visiting to help us with ourselves…) nothing at all, a blink in time, though insignificant nor the center of the universe should we feel; we are each dearly loved, part of the same mother tree unseen but a morph of every variety, the keeper of every seed and leaf releasing us one by one into the world upon the breezes in perfectly timed seasons to root ourselves until it’s our time and we are called back again like this beautiful blossom having just detached. I always wonder if it’s a leap of faith or sacrifice or circumstance.
In any event, who could not ponder the rest of their life happening upon