I try to photograph this grove of Big-Toothed Aspen every year when the bracken yellows and the graceful trunks show at their best, still holding the silvery-green leaves. It is west of the house, where the woods begin. The photographs always remind me of Botticelli's Primavera. It is something about the similar rectangular format, the trees at the right of the painting, the pastel palette and just an overall general sinuous quality. I took this picture today during a gentle rain.
There are many fine poems here; this one, by W. S.Merwin is eloquent
on a subject which had occupied many people who write.
To the Words
When it happens you are not there
oh you beyond numbers
beyond recollection
passed on from breath to breath
given again
from day to day from age
to age
charged with knowledge
knowing nothing
indifferent elders
indispensable and sleepless
keepers of our names
before ever we came
to be called by them
you that were
formed to begin with
you that were cried out
you that were spoken
to begin with
to say what could not be said
ancient precious
and helpless ones
say it
—W. S. Merwin
When it happens you are not there
oh you beyond numbers
beyond recollection
passed on from breath to breath
given again
from day to day from age
to age
charged with knowledge
knowing nothing
indifferent elders
indispensable and sleepless
keepers of our names
before ever we came
to be called by them
you that were
formed to begin with
you that were cried out
you that were spoken
to begin with
to say what could not be said
ancient precious
and helpless ones
say it
—W. S. Merwin
And I can never decide whether to show more or less of the ferns.
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