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| "Autumn Moon, the High Sierra from Glacier Point" (Ansel Adams, 1948) |
Dapples of
fire on a rippling breeze,
Breath feels
clear as a mountain spring
To sit for a
moment beneath all that is,
The most
pure of all things.
The
compression of life
When it’s
tangled in masses
Is met only
by silence,
Hidden deep
in crevasses.
Wherever one
goes,
Truth is not
far behind,
It surrounds
and envelops you,
Alone
stopping time.
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