June 2018
The poem below is part of a series I wrote in the voice of a retired photographer who came along with his wife to a poetry conference in Moab, Utah years ago, when we all used film instead of phones for taking pictures. His name was Walter, and he was experiencing moderate dementia due to Alzheimers disease— but he still took his “photography” very seriously, even though he lacked film and a working camera. He became what could be called the conference “mascot,” and added a great deal to the general camaraderie. It’s the opening poem in the series, reflecting a time when Walter was still in control of most of his faculties.
Time Lapse
It’s her seventy-seventh June (her sixty-fourth
with a camera in her hand), and you wonder
why she leaves behind her comfortable hearth
to crouch down on a patch of soggy tundra
taking pictures in the cold. Well, I’ll
tell you why: it’s to press her hands
against that rough young grass, to feel it yield
under her fingers, then to turn her lens
on the wetness underneath, where the soil
hides its buried treasure. Granite pearls,
flint sequins, limestone underpinnings-- they’re all
uncovered now, everything’s exposed! The voyeur
in her goes feverish inside her head
watching seeds moving in their satin bed.
© 2018 Marilyn L. Taylor
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