Which photograph says it?
The curving path, resilient green, the child moving ahead?
The red rubies to eat or steep, on brittle branches, spiny sharp?
The coil of metal, the cunning of gears, a thing made inanimate?
The stacks and stacks, like books: repetition, accretion, fuel for our fires?
The cupped husk, onion dome, its architecture of lace the harbor of fruit?
The sky above, scribbled with sticks, fiery leaves in blue air?
Which one says enough? Which one says you have everything you need. Which one says wait a minute. Don't move on. Or is it all of them together, pointing to a life made, a life observed, a shift of season that brings with it a gathering together, a turning inward?
I want to be still enough to see. And from that sight, to learn. And from that knowledge, to compose.
To be composed: "busyness" has no grace. My making must have a purpose. Beauty, utility, a means of giving. I cannot make a thing just to say I made it. Because, of course, it has all been created. Before. And will be again. I want to create gratitude in my own heart. To say I have enough, and it is enough.
