Worn contours run in the narrow canyons of my eyes. I have been sculpted by tempests and floods. Sloping shoulder and yielding angles of elbow echo landscapes cascading golden shawls over bony cliffs. I listen to the poem recited by the passing of time, how the body and the planet are the same, the drama of structure and lifeblood present in clasped hands at rest. Line and layer flow like kindred sap in the veins. Poetry and Photography, c1999 Laura Bayless |