bestowal

 

 

 

 

 

I have her hands

 

to hold her stories

 

 

 

 

 

 

acceptance

 

 

 

 

 

 

if wrinkles were flowers

we’d all welcome them

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

out to pasture

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

metaphor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Let the labyrinth of wrinkles be furrowed in my brow with the red-hot iron of my own life, let my hair whiten and my step become vacillating, on condition that I can save the intelligence of my soul – let my unformed childhood soul, as it ages, assume the rational and esthetic forms of an architecture, let me learn just everything that others cannot teach me, what only life would be capable of marking deeply in my skin!”

 

Salvador Dalí

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ripening

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the heat stifles
flowers wilt
fruit ripens
(as do I)

 

 August is approaching