I have a card on my desk with words
hand-printed: lines, form, textures, colors,
rhythm, patterns, motion. I say them
to myself as if they were a mantra,
to train myself to pay attention.
Everything has something to say.
I’m driving through cornfields
on my usual Wednesday trip, and today
the fields boast only stubby stalks.
The harvest is in. I note the color,
the texture. I turn onto the main road,
two-lane, decently paved, and watch
late autumn flow past me. A mile
or so down the road, I pull off to stop
to see the wetlands on this fine day
in mid-November, and as I step
from my car the sky grabs me
and my mind is shouting like a child:
Lines! Form! Texture! Colors!
Rhythm! Patterns! Motion!
And that child-self twirls in the grass
as I take pictures.