Plumeria

Somtething in me won­ders if there will be new things to pho­to­graph. Hasn’t every­thing been seen/done/shot? It

turns out that this is not the case. Life laps up in an eter­nal ris­ing tide. It is abun­dance itself. The

images fly past me faster than I can even think of record­ing them: the cel­lar door at dusk, the curve of your wrist on

your lap, the light bend­ing around the petals of the plume­ria. My fear of run­ning out is where pho­tog­ra­phy teaches me

about the won­der and full­ness of every­thing, now, all of it, in this 1/60^th of a sec­ond of the closed shutter.