I am looking into the future of my garden and see the blizzard potential of weeds in the twilight of June. I am thinking back to my parents and their artwork, then future of my own work. I work with my camera photographing pots and flowers, bringing the lens' image into focus so that my artistic ideas get clearer. I leave behind the memory of honeysuckle on my way to a June dance class with Anita Zahn in Long Island. I leave it nestled behind the old childhood fears of repeating myself and trust that I am tilling fertile ground ever deeper and weeding out the confusion contributed by weeds.
So he's seen the blizzard that the future
looks like, and gotten lost,
a little. All the same--
he gathers the honeysuckle in his arms,
as for a lover.
Cloud of bees, of yellow.
His chest, blurring bright with it."
--Carl Phillips, from "Capella," The Kenyon Review (vol. 36, no. 1, Winter 2014)
So he's seen the blizzard that the futurelooks like, and gotten lost,
a little. All the same--
he gathers the honeysuckle in his arms,
as for a lover.
Cloud of bees, of yellow.
His chest, blurring bright with it."
--Carl Phillips, from "Capella," The Kenyon Review (vol. 36, no. 1, Winter 2014)
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