Upon the Blur Project, in the Twenty-Fifth Year

In September’s hush, when GOLDEN HOUR fades
And shadows lengthen over grass well-worn,
I walk the streets, where children, swift as thought,
Pursue delight—unbidden, unobserved—
In candid photography preserved.
This is the Natural world, not framed by art,
Yet art itself, where signs of mortal time
Mark 25y, and deeper still, the count:
25y09m, and one day more
25y09m14d, a fragile leaf
Clinging to the branch of passing hours.

O Stranger collection, faces half in dream,
Encountered once and never seen again,
Your eyes like fountains in a drought of souls,
Your stillness caught in silver, stilled yet living.

Where FLORA blooms, I see the earth restore
What failure sought to spoil; for flowers rise
Against despair, and teach a kinder law.
Behold: FLORA-Marigolds-Orange burn
Like embers dropped from chariots of dawn,
And FLORA-summer snapdragon-Purple lifts
Its violet banners to the evening wind.

A meadow shaped for memory—a picnic,
A fountain murmuring of ancient springs,
A garden where the street photography
Knows holiness, and shutter-clicks are prayers.

So let the archive keep what hearts would lose,
For time forgets, but images recall,
And Picasa guards what once we were;
These tags, though alphabetized, bear witness still
To footsteps over dust of vanished days,
And all the world that sunlight could reveal.