In the garden this morning, I am looking where I always look.
Blossoms stand ghostlike in abundant tree foliage. A dead leaf hangs captive in the frayed strands of a flag, flit-flapping. Undergrowth and overgrowth fill the day’s holes with unknowing.
I watch.
New faces of color and light emerge.
The more I look, the less I know what I see. Or who.
« Je pourrais passer le reste de ma vie simplement à dessiner deux chaises et une table, » said Giacometti. (« I could spend the rest of my life simply drawing two chairs and a table. »)