Still

Many eyes go through the meadow,
but few see the flowers in it —Ralph Waldo Emerson

I aim and shoot with fierce alacrity
As artistry unfurls before my eyes
In all its charismatic clarity:
The gauzy glint of scudding dragonflies;
A butterfly’s sartorial gaiety
Caught wafting in kaleidoscopic skies.
I wonder at God’s windfalls on the wing
And capture the euphoria they bring.  

What it’s Like Shooting 50 Portraits on 32 Sets in Just a Few Hours
I focus on a crocus clad in dew,
And snap its purple sparkle in the splash
Of morning’s titian prelude to the blue,
Immortalizing solar-swathed panache.
I revel in the panoramic view
Of dawn’s ensemble freeze-framed in a flash.
On nimbose days of rayless, grey despair
Pictorial glory begs I stop and stare.  

I gaze on pollen-peppered legs of bees
And sticky flicks of toads’ tongues trapping flies;
The whisker tips of squirrels in the eaves
And ramrod ears of deer seized by surprise;
Cicadas’ amber husks on limbs of trees,
A shy moon on the rise as twilight dies.
I marvel at the techno-alchemy
That floods my thirsty eye with ecstasy.

Gifts of every ilk and every shade
Scurry, stalk and scamper, sway and soar.
The feathered, furred, and petaled scenes portrayed
Are accolades to Eden’s sacred core.
I ponder on celestial hands that made
Each miracle my lens draws to the fore.
My camera’s splendor and its untold worth
Lie in my glimpse of heaven gracing earth.