The Garden in Late Summer – Late Flowers

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The Greening of Art Hill – Grand Basin Trees and Lights – Forest Park – St. Louis, Missouri

In my opinion, the folks who have been managing Forest Park have had a long string of successes. I must say, though, that this one, of planting and lighting up trees at the top rim of Art Hill, is extra stunning. I first noticed the reflection in the water the other day whilst on a walk with a friend. I knew that my Canon 6D and a long exposure was going to make for an extra special shot. Even so, these are still a little ad hoc as I was headed home late at night and used a sweater as a tripod. Who am I kidding; I love using a sweater as a tripod.

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Eclipsed – Image and Haiku – Supermoon and an Overcast St. Louis

I had not planned on taking images of the Supermoon, and the overcast sky in St. Louis this evening seemed to ensure that no one would. Even so, coming home from Illinois, I swung through Forest Park, you know, just in case the moon popped out from behind a cloud in clever juxtaposition with some fantastic monument or tree. It was not to be. Only when I was sitting on the steps with a housemate mulling over the coming week did it appear, with only the tiniest hint of a smudge of the eclipse visible in its upper right side. I framed it in a tree and got at least one satisfactory shot.

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Leaping tall buildings
In a bound, Supermoon soars;
Clouds like Kryptonite.

“fabric of the past” – New haiku and image – Plus an old poem bonus – Grandma’s hands

fabric of the past
pieced and quilted, worn into
a ragged glory
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Today, in order to make my room a little darker for some daytime photo processing, I hung one of grandma’s quilts up against the curtain. As you can see it is a well worn one. I have many lovely memories of my grandma and quilts. Also, every time I think on how they are made, quilts seem like perfect metaphors for life. I do not often present both an image and haiku together, as I can tend to be lazy and let the haiku feed off the image too much and not stand on its own. I think this one works by itself, too, though. Finally the poem after the image is a rather an old one on the same subject.
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Grandma’s Hands

Grandma’s hands were smooth and white
When I was a child.
And labored long at tasks untold
From dawn till well past setting sun,
And sometimes cuffed me into line
Along with words though stern, still kind
To make a young boy wise.

And when I’d grown
They’d labor still
Well into the night
With untold thimbled needle thrusts
Punctuating time.
But then they were but skin on bones
That would wrinkle up in mine
As hand in hand we’d talk and sit;

I’d listen with delight,
To tales of life and love and woe
And watch those transparent hands in mine
And see the blood go coursing by.

Grandma’s hands were smooth and white
When I was a child.