The Threshold of Winter

Frost on the puddle, even in the afternoon, yet still one yellow Cottonwood Leaf against an otherwise stark black and white background enriched by a multitude of etched webbed crossing lines from several dimensions, both reflected and real.

It is here that my brain analogizes reality into the patterns I see in life, the contrasts we are brought up with, the irreconcilable blacks and whites, not willing to grey.

This Poem Came to Mind as I Posted This on My Flickr Site

http://www.flickr.com/photos/pictoscribe/10683218215/

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The Threshold of Winter's Hold

The Threshold of Winter's Hold

Papa taught me about Black and White,

and Color or No Color,

Then Warm versus Cold

And soon Right and Wrong?

Depending on whose point of view,

Realistic - Unrealistic.

Bad or Good?

And often it would come down to"We'll see!"

Bare branches, Fallen leaves,

Darker nights, Shorter days.

First frost.

Crystals shake hands with fluid molecules ...

 the dance 

of 

hydrogen and oxygen.

Staring down, at the basics,

The lines etched in fluid,

Ever changing states of being,

Amazing grace,

Seen from the right angle,

Open to each moment,

Like a final gasp.