Archive for the ‘Santa Catalina Mountains’ Tag
Bright Colors of the Season — Image by kenne
I walk through the bright colors of the season,
fire-red leaves falling like words
I once meant to say.
The mountain exhales—
a slow, last sigh.
Somewhere below,
a stream folds light into its cold hands,
and I remember what forgiveness feels like.
— kenne
Old Prickly Pear and Longleaf False Goldeneye — Image by kenne
Desert Fable
“I love rugged men,”
said the bright little flower,
stretching toward the sun.
The old prickly pear
only chuckled—
“Child, love the wind instead.
He’ll come and go,
but never cling.”
Snow on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
A traveler who pauses to admire the beauty of woods filling with snow,
but is reminded by his horse and his own sense of duty that he must
continue his journey because he has “promises to keep”
and “miles to go before I sleep.
— from Stopping by the Woods On a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost
Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Go alone, if you would see clearly.
Crowds borrow courage from noise.
The solitary man,
standing before a vast horizon,
measures himself without deception.
There, humility is not taught—
it is required,
as gravity requires weight.
— kenne
Aspen Trail Autumn Colors on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Events drift in the lattice of time,
stitched by light’s patient hand.
Shift the coordinates,
and yesterday’s truth dissolves—
what was simultaneous
now follows itself in echo.
What you see in nature
depends on where you’re standing.
Front Range Snow On the Catalinas — Image by kenne
Sun breaks over the Rincons,
throws gold sideways
onto Catalina snow.
Raven rides a thermal
rising from bare rock,
circle over circle—
energy borrowed
from sun,
stone,
air,
everything.
Nothing mystical—
just earth doing
what earth does.
And me,
lucky to stand in it.
— kenne
One of Several Low-water Crossings in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
Low-Water Bridges
There’s a kind of mischief in a low-water bridge.
Looks harmless when the creek’s quiet—
just a flat stretch of concrete
with dragonflies for sentries.
But you wait for the rain.
Then it turns trickster—
swells its belly,
covers the road,
and dares you to guess how deep.
I crossed one at sunrise once,
boots wet,
heart lighter
than it had any right to be.
The creek chuckled under its breath—
as if it knew a thousand fools before me
had tried to outsmart water,
most have failed to win.
— kenne
Sabino Canyon Sunrise — Image by kenne
“Photographs do not render reality–realistically.
It is reality which is scrutinized, and evaluated, for its fidelity to photographs.
Instead of just recording reality, photographs have become the norm
for the way things appear to us, thereby changing the very idea of reality,
and of realism.”
— Susan Sontag
Image by kenne
Life will test you—
with loss,
with longing,
with the long silence
of waiting.
But you are
not meant
to bow forever.
Stand,
even if trembling.
Walk,
even if slowly.
For every forward step
is an act of becoming.
— kenne
An Orange-Capped Mushroom on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Under a quilt of needles,
it presses upward—
a small insistence
against the coming white silence.
— kenne
Desert Reflection On the Water Above Sabino Dam — Image by kenne
Is life just a reflection of what is real?
I get it, but I don’t get it.
I stride the world silent to others,
yet to you I unfold like a long summer evening.
You know the tides within me,
the rise, the hush, the shifting shore.
What I withhold from the multitudes
I share freely with the one who holds my hand.
— kenne
Aspen Trail on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
A trail of yellow leaves
threads the aspens—
a quiet path of sunlight
laid gently on the forest floor.
— kenne
Girl Atop Windy Point Pinnacle — Image by kenne
Windy Point Girl
She’s up there now,
short-shorts and sunlight,
heart beating faster
than the climb.
Wind takes her hair,
makes a banner of it—
victory in a wild language
only mountains understand.
Below, Tucson sprawls,
small as toy houses,
streets like veins
spilling into desert.
She smiles,
pushing back her hair,
as if the world itself
were hers to love,
and for a moment—
I swear it is.
— kenne
Thurber’s Cinquefoil On Sunset Trail — Image by kenne
Thurber’s cinquefoil glows,
sunset leans on the ridgeline—
silence takes its breath.
— kenne
Magic Marker and Oil Painting — Image by kenne
Sunrise Over the Catalinas
Magic marker lines bleed into oil—
the desert never holds still long enough
to be captured clean.
Cactus spines catch first light,
ocotillo arms rise like prayers
half-drunk on morning air.
The mountains smolder pink and gold,
a slow ignition of everything I love—
wildness, solitude,
the stubborn ache of beauty
that doesn’t give a damn
whether I’m watching or not.
