Black and White (revised, 12.24.14)
I spend this morning in in my office visiting Alaska,
clearing dust from a snow-covered mountain
brilliant in the low winter sun.
Thirty below, hundreds of spots, dirt
and scratches: abrasions of twenty winters,
landslides, thaws, freezes – disfigurements
of age. I wonder if ridges and slopes
have sloughed and fallen, baring rock, scouring trees
with draughts of compressed air, changing the landscape
forever.
Finished, I pretend to stand again in a darkroom –
scent of fixer mingles with crisp day,
numbing my nostrils. I ask Ansel to bless this,
my latest effort to visualize zones as I remember,
performance complete with a last mouse click –
burning highlights, maintaining texture in the whites;
dodged shadows distill the cold past into clean,
cruel tones of now.
I am reminded of all that is seen
and gone missing in the frosted glass;
even Ansel can’t bring it back, can’t make what was reappear
–
instead, a sharp rendering makes me draw breath,
full of cold air and light.
full of cold air and light.