Wild, or Russian Olive

Perhaps poems are simply paths

we make in walking, sometimes,

even when headed the wrong way;

These things—gifts, one picks

up and passes on,

along the way.

A NEW FRIEND

for Paolo

Before I could remember
how to say I was walking,
he leapt out of his car, speaking
perfect English, throwing
my pack in his trunk.

“You can stay with me.
But you’ll need a car, some
cash, and a date, perhaps.”

How could I refuse?
The idea that I must walk
the whole way
went up in a puff of smoke
on the sound of tires
quite used to losing their grip
three or more curves down the road.

(The Italian Alps
from ON PATHS
see below)

Please visit my picture-poems.com MOUNTAIN WATER
print gallery. Above is a set recent images.
(Mouse-over controls.)

I might just mention here, following the ethical principle,
First, do no harm, I never use cars or snowmachines. I
do everything on foot, bike or ski. I think this in a
deep and direct way affects my work, and how I see
the world. So all the photos above were approached
on foot, including all the in between spaces, sometimes
involving journeys of weeks or months.

I would not want to work any other way.