My father dead now for interminable years. Won’t leave me in peace, doesn’t want to go. I see him every day. My old man hides in trees, in water, in clouds of smoke escaping from secretary cigarettes, or he enters like a thief through my windows and he steals my food.
He’s a live wire. He’s capable of hiding himself on the moon and he tells me, son, nothing remains. Nothing remains.
My father planted in his Mexican soil, laying roots into the dark meadow of forget, shines. When I turn off the lamp, his face throws sparks in the corner. When I make love, he comes running. When I step out to the street, he pursues me through the eyes of homeless children. He wears heels of gold. He smells my coffee. I see him without seeing him and he says, son, nothing remains. Nothing remains.
My father dead already and turned to dust, cries tears of clay. With the voice of stones, he shouts, he sings, his final advice.
Son, your life is one coin. Spend yourself well for nothing remains. Nothing remains of me.
Once the process of bringing forth new life passes, leaves fall, vines become brittle to the touch, and seeds are transported to new lands where life can begin anew when the rains return.
There is reason to believe that the rains will not return, or at least with so little only the hardiest of the hardy will survive when the heat of the new normal bakes the already dry land.
What will come of this wasteland? A land where the winds carry a deadly virus bringing death to weakest of the weak, where many feel they are not accomplices to what caused the suffering.
Mountain Wildflowers of Southern Arizona — A Field Guide to the Santa Catalina Mountains and Other Nearby Ranges by Frank S. Rose
When I began hiking the mountains of southern Arizona, I always had my camera with me. If you follower of this blog, you know there are many photos of beautiful mountain wildflowers, most of which I could not identify. However, Frank S. Rose made it easy for me to put names with the photos with the publication of his field guide in 2011.
For years before the guide’s publication, Frank spent summers painting watercolor images of the wildflowers. But, much like myself, he experienced difficulty identifying the wildflowers. It wasn’t until Frank got to know Joan Tedford, Bob Porter and other Sabino Canyon Volunteer Naturalists spending time with them on their weekly nature walks, that he began to work on his photographic field guide.
Thank you, Frank, for your many hours and miles of walking, searching, photographing and learning about flowers from which so many of us have benefited.
— kenne
Joan Tedford, Debbie Bird, Edi Moore, Heather Murphy, and Frank Rose (May 2, 2016) — Images by kenne
In this video, Frank Rose tells the story of how he met Joan Tedford.
“Imagine a speck of dust next to a planet a billion times
the size of the earth. The speck of dust represents the
odds in favor of your being born; the huge planet would
be the odds against it. So stop sweating the small stuff.
Don’t be like the ingrate who got a castle as a present and
worried about the mildew in the bathroom. Stop looking
the gift horse in the mouth—remember that you are a
Black Swan.”
― from The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable by Nassim Nicholas Taleb,
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car, And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
Black Swan — Source: Pinterest 
