Some time back, I’d gathered a grouping of enormous leaves — maple leaves, from hight into a mixed and old forest group, pushing into the inward channel side of the Olympic Mountains range — from there, leaves fell — forming a crisp yellow tapestry in the midst of a dark forest – the mist from the cascading river, rising up and roaring a background to everything that I was sensing:

– cold mist, shadowed lumens
– scent of moistening leaves, mosses, trees wet — mushrooms
– taste of iced water
– hearing the sound: wind, rain, river-roar
– sight of the flickering light
– balance in the walking softness of 1000 year old forest place
– intuition, in memory, of being here, coming here: be fore.

I recall that light. Arranged this folio of leaves, light cast, in a simple table arrangement. Sun, coming through, filters the love of the veining of the natural florescence — the foliation spins out, filling the place of the heart in the emptiness of that moment untouched.


Tim | Miami

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