There is an impulse to keep things as they are. A plant. A stick. A bone. The old tree in the yard regularly sheds sticks and leaves and then produces more leaves, more sticks. Each season, each moment has its remnant. The spent bloom of yarrow, lilac, prairie smoke. A tree limb pruned after hail damage. A nest fallen from a tree. A tooth fallen from a jaw.
I cannot let these things go. I collect. I sort. I stack like a farmer. But my thoughts are more like an undertaker. I want decay to stop, everything bound, encased, somehow held in suspension. I do what I can to preserve.
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2019-2021