Death makes strangers of us all

I met her first in high school. Her name then was Alice Cyan. We dated and did what teenagers usually do, being full of hormones. When we went off to college, we wished each other luck and that was it. I met her again in law school, though her name now was Francine Bedower. She didn’t remember me, but I knew her the first moment I heard her laugh. It was like wind rattling through dry leaves. She was beautiful. I mean, really beautiful, statuesque, as they say. I slept with her once then, but so did almost everyone else. We didn’t see each other all that much and, though we graduated from law school in the same class, there was really no reason to stay in touch. When I met her the third time, her name now Townsy Harper, she was working for a law firm in San Francisco and I happened to be close by. We would meet for drinks. She was divorced, had two kids, a daughter and a son, and a lot of cats, but no dogs. She had made a point of that, no dogs. She had grown so thin I almost didn’t recognize her, but she knew me. She reminded me that when she and I were dating back in high school, her father had died and that’s why she liked me. That puzzled me a little, but okay, that’s as good a reason as any I suppose. Then she stopped coming by. When we met for the fourth and last time, I was in the hospital for what I was assured would be a routine colonoscopy. Her name was now Sally Caulder, same last name as mine, though spelled differently as it turned out. It startled me at the time. She was stooped over, staring down at me as I lay there, waiting my turn. I had recognized her right off, that same laugh, but tart. When I asked her who she was now, she spat her name Caulder in my face and told me she didn’t know me and that she never wanted to see me again, biting down finally on "asshole" but seeming to look through me like glass. I can't say I blame her. After all, as I was soon to learn, she did not have long to live either.

Ber Himwich Photography 325

PoetryMatters 26

PoetryMatters 25

Screethes and Sciffs

The big wind, press
of leaf, earth-edge
who creeps there

pleynly arcing wur
screethes and sciffs
erth chilly clumfs lern

There’s no one here to tell me true

My song is like a buzzard’s wing,
Like night it paints itself as blue.

for Charles

PoetryMatters 24

Still alive

It was the long, cool time between sleep and waking, nestling in the morning light like a fledgling, though by the counting of the clock the world outside was buzzing, he impervious to its insistent question, What now? What to do if not everything at once? He remembered the previous night when he had talked himself to sleep, giving himself to the Oblivion that soon enough would put an end to all the questions, the time when there would be nothing at all to do and the chance to forget, giving himself to the future with nothing on his mind but the GIVING AWAY, the questions no more than the flutter of leaves just outside his window that was more like the chatter of children than a farewell. And now in the eternal Before and After, he lay there in the half-light and was glad, surprised to be still alive.

(112020)

Leonora's Photography 92-97

Living in a Bubble

Le chemin de la découverte

The blue city of Rajasthan- La ville bleue du Rajasthan

The old part of Jodhpur, near the Mehrangarh Fort (where this picture was taken) has buildings mainly painted in blue.

Some say the colour is associated closely with the Brahmins, India’s priestly caste, and the blue houses of the old city belong to families of that caste. Consequently, you might well hear the properties referred to as the ‘Brahmin Houses’.

There are those who believe that the blue colour help deter termites.

Some locals believe that the colour blue is a good reflector of sun rays, so painting the house like this will keep their house cool in warmer months.

Dans le vieux quartier de la ville de Jodhpur l'ensemble des maisons est peint en bleu.

On dit que les maisons bleues sont le résultat de l’étendue des croyances dirigées par les castes. Les brahmanes, autrement considérés comme les plus pures des castes indiennes, se seraient installés dans ces maisons bleues pour se différencier des membres des autres castes. Une tradition qui est restée.

On dit aussi que les maisons de Jodhpur sont peintes en bleu pour combattre la chaleur.., ou les termites,.

Et puis la présence de plantations d’indigo à Jodhpur et dans les régions voisines pourrait expliquer un choix économique.

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Faire une parenthèse

"Laissez votre vie danser avec légèreté sur les bords du Temps"

("Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time")

Rabindranath Tagore, poète indien (1861-1941) in "Le Jardinier d’amour"

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Bande à par

(Bob Dylan - Crossing the Rubicon-)

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Glacier (Southern Alps; New Zealand)

Leonora on Flickr.

One to live, One to die

We’re like a wire strung

From eye to eye,

From yours to mine.

The last day, when it comes,

Binds all as one.

PoetryMatters 23: Winterreise (Winter Journey)

Oranges

He was determined this time not to cut his fingers as he sliced the oranges. He would focus and keep his fingers well away from the blade. He remembered all too well how previously his blood had flowed onto the oranges and pooled on the plate. He knew it wasn’t just because he was getting old, fading into memory and the lure of the trees and his first kiss. She had been as nervous as he and had closed her eyes. Now all he could think of was feeding her oranges and the taste on her lips. And suddenly, she had bitten his lip, making it bleed. And then, more softly, she was feeding him. She was delicious and he . . . . he was lost in the trees. He put the knife down and wept.

Ber Himwich Photography 319-324

Windows

Man in the Moon

Ber Himwich on Flickr

Hold True

No one snows winter

If all they know is snow

The wind that chills the bone

The branches bereft of leaves

Winter is where we begin again

And touch the fire in our hearts.

We hold true, gather round

The flame and pray for life.

PoetryMatters 22

PoetryMatters 21

Begin in not-knowing

Whitman in Section 6 of "Song of Myself" gives readers a way into their own expansive poetic consciousness. Whitman models for us how asking a childlike question, e.g. What is the grass? Where does the sound go? -- is able to stir the creative imagination. First, the question and then, rather than being the wise guy or gal, simply acknowledge what is true: I do not know, and continue, I guess . . . maybe . . . . .perhaps it is . . . and soon enough Whitman will greet you like the morning light:

What is this morning light? I do not know

Perhaps it is the song of my heart.
In the end, we know no more
Than the fall of rain upon dry land.

Where then come these flowers?

Perhaps they hear me calling

Comments (0)

Out of Time

When they removed the tree they moved the place
Or rather the place became a barren field
Where light through the green, still moving shade
No longer marks the ground like rain.
And yet here I am with you,
Your face bent over mine the air
rippling with laughter the tree
covering us in its bright shadow the earth
yielding as we fall out of time. Out of time?
What is left but song?
Listen! the ringing in the air, this rain
These tears hammering out the tune, time and place.
He, she, and all you love, draw near.

PoetryMatters 20

The Singer of Oceans

for Niko Dellios

No one should die young
But they do
No one should die alone
But they do
No one will forget
Listen!
Wave upon wave
Breaking its heart
Like thunder
On a distant shore.

Niko, a student in my Humanities class back in 2010, died in a car accident in November 2020. He was a wonderfully creative young man and a joy to teach. For more information about Niko and how beloved he was: Niko Dellios.

The Syllabus

The Syllabus: He arrived at school that day eager to teach his students the meaning of logos, not the Gospel Word, but the Heraclitean River in which no man can step twice -- or was it once? Whatever. He was blooming like a rose and was about to explain it all when he noticed he had in fact no students. Was it a holiday? He couldn’t remember. He then noticed a hammer on his desk and several 12-inch nails. Before he could think, he was running, though others would call it falling. The students arrived on schedule and found him lying on the floor like yesterday’s news, his eyes bugged out, mumbling over and over “All is lost.” When he recovered, he returned to teaching, but this time he stuck to the syllabus.

PoetryMatters 19

A Poem for Thanks Giving

PoetryMatters 18

Leonora's Photography 87-91

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Cercle de lecture

"On parle souvent de la magie de la lecture. Cette magie, nous la connaissons tous, elle tient à cette capacité étrange que possèdent les livres de nous transporter, comme sur un tapis volant ou une machine à visiter le temps, dans un autre espace et un autre temps. La lecture met en mouvement notre imagination, nous fait oublier où nous sommes, qui nous sommes, en quel temps nous vivons et quels sont nos soucis. Et cependant, tel est le paradoxe essentiel, cette activité qui nous écarte du monde réel est aussi celle qui nous le fait découvrir et connaître, cette activité qui nous fait oublier qui nous sommes est aussi celle qui nous permet d’apprivoiser nos propres secrets. Autant qu’une distraction, la lecture est un apprentissage"(..)

Tiré de: "Eloge de la lecture" de Jean-Michel Maulpoix, poète et critique littéraire français, né en 1952.

© Leonora; all rights reserved
A la lisière de la rizière

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Méandres

(Aerial view of the Sarawak River on the island of Borneo)

J o n g l e r

♫♪

youtu.be/lvzpUGUQBto (Erwin Schulhoff - Suite Dansante En Jazz-)

Offrande

Le rituel occupe une place importante dans toutes les traditions bouddhiques. Brûler de l’encens est un rituel sacré qui permet de créer un pont entre le monde visible de l’humain et celui, spirituel, des dieux.

Rituals have an important place in all Buddhist traditions. Burning incense is a sacred ritual that creates a bridge between the visible world of humans and the spiritual world of the gods.

Leonora on Flickr.

Ber Himwich Photography: 314 - 318

Ber on Flickr

PoetryMatters 17

PoetryMatters 16

Scarecrow

Photo by Ber Himwich

The Scarecrow

Some say I am wise.
O what a joke!
Nothing like So-crates,
Not even a pose.
Silence is golden
Or so the rhyme goes,
Yet I will do nothing
But sing with the crows.

Leedy Corbin: Paul Harding's "Tinkers"

Thinking Writing English III - 1st Trimester, fall, 2020

Download Thinking Writing for English III- 1st Trimester

Will-of-the-Whipped Mathematics

4 Days to the End of the Trimester Not Counting the Weekend, 14 Days if you do.

(I use a value-added-time-bending-will-of-the-whipped binominal equation, (x² +1)( y² + 2) =10 where x = Saturday and y = Sunday. It works for me. After all, numbers are just numbers. They are there to use in accordance with the mechanics of General Relativity. ‘Generally-speaking’, I am for anything that ‘extends’ time on planet earth. I hear time elsewhere approximates zero.)

now east now west

the road has a mind of its own

and my feet obey

the rest of me stays behind
treelike

above

the sky grows gentle

MY HEART OPENS

the road goes on

as if not knowing

which way is best

PoetryMatters 14

On Rambling

I well remember my father asking, What's the difference between a ham sandwich and an elephant?

The Answer: Neither one can climb a tree.

That's where the trouble started.

11:50 am: (Here comes the judge): You are charged with rambling, Mr. Himwich, of wasting your students’ time. Kazi has registered the complaint. You may question him. Kazi, is it really just rambling? Yes, it is. Am I rambling now? Yes, you are. Why do you think I ramble? That’s what old folks do. Perhaps I should just shove the work down your throat from the get-go and live with the regurgitation. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Me neither, that’s the point.

11:52 am: Judge Jo: Mr. Himwich, can you explain what 'rambling' is? It’s like trying to find the long-playing groove, getting down with the soprano, learning again how to dance. Glenn knows this well, see him stretching and contorting his limbs into a knot, pure negative capability, I don’t hear no one complaining about Keats. Holy Nijinsky, that man could dance. You’re saying ‘rambling’ is poetry and poetry is dancing? I call it keating, birding, peck, peck, now here now here, modo huc modo illuc, gurgling on air --- Are you 'rambling' now, Mr. Himwich? Does a rooster roast chestnuts? Is the moon to the earth as Jack is to his Beanstalk as green is to soot? It's like tying yourself in knots just like Glenn is doing there or breaking out of a cage.

11:54 am: Judge Jo: Glenn, is that what you call dancing? You look like a jellyfish about to explode. Haven't you've learned anything in this class? It's good for the soul, inside out or outside in. It's all the same. I call this move, Knot again, Knot again.

11:56 am: Judge Jo: Tell us, Mr. Himwich, how did you come to believe in the value of rambling? Well, one day, I overheard Emerson de Boot say to Riley the Wise: “Ask him about what he had for dinner last night and he’ll start talking about the moon, his son’s photography, the screaming of lobsters in the pot -- better yet, ask him if one plus one is one or two and soon enough class will be over and we’ll all get A’s,” and I thought, well, if that all it takes for my students to be successful, I would give it a try. Is it working? Clearly. Just ask Riley.

11:58 am: Well, Riley? I first thought he was just senile, hanging on to his teaching career by the merest of margins, but having tried rambling for myself and getting A's on all my papers, I've become a true believer. He calls me 'the Wise' because I play the game the right way, with fiddlesticks and buttered rum. The man's a genius. He told us so himself.

12:00 am or pm: Mr. Himwich, Aiden de Bomb here, aka The Weary One, do you remember me? Yes and No. Which would you prefer? If yes then no or vice-versa. Do you get my drift? Drifting, drifting, let the river of time and mind take you away, the answer will come upon you long after you've forgotten the question. I understand now, it's all about applying the indefinite dyad to a singularity. One size fits all.

11:58 am: Judge Jo: Do you have any witnesses, Mr. Himwich, who can give us an intelligible account of rambling? Is Aaron here? He rambles better than I do. He could teach the class. Aaron, do you swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth? The truth, what’s that? Animal, vegetable, mineral? I love playing twenty-questions. Like the Ancient One says, the questions are more important than the answers, it’s the meaning of life, keeps the merry-go-round spinning, your neurons jingling and flashing off and on, and it's good for a laugh. After all, the show must go on and where we would be if---Judge Jo: That’s quite enough, Aaron. Is there anyone else who has something to contribute? Hinano, what’s your take on this question? I don’t have much to offer, but I can say that in the esoteric philosophies of the Far Far East aka Shangri-la, drifting or what you’re calling rambling is what those who are thought to be wise call the touchstone of existence itself. It’s like ringing a bell and following the sound wherever it goes until at last all you hear is a thunderous silence. Did you learn this from Mr. Himwich? No, I just drifted into his class and stayed. He calls drawing poetry and lets me get on with going nowhere. Are you saying his rambling is meaningful? Maybe.

11:56 am: Tarik, what do you have to say? I have no opinion. I do what I am told to the best of my ability, even if that means just staring blankly at the screen. I recommend it. It's a circus.

11:54 am: Oliva, you haven’t spoken yet. . . . . . Olivia, I can see you. You’re sitting right there in plain sight. Answer the question. You haven’t asked me a question. Haven't you been listening? For the umpteenth time, Is rambling a waste? Is it a bad thing not to listen when you are trying to think things out for yourself? The man lets me write and that's all I really care about, but I can say his rambling is like the migration of the sandhill cranes, like drinking beer and eating ice cream for breakfast. You’re rambling, Olivia. No, I’m not. I am writing the great American novel on dying violently again and again after you’re already stone-cold dead and I can tell you there’s not a bit of rambling in it, just a lot of distant howling.

11:52 am: Judge Jo: Kazi, do you still want to press charges? Judge, the old man has concocted this whole charade just to whistle away the time: "I can name that tune in four notes, more or less." I never charged him with anything, but he is guilty, guilty, guilty and he has infected his students with his own silliness. He’s even going to make me play a clueless waif in this clown show. Don't you get it? I am talking to you but neither of us is here. None of us are. Not even the old man. It's just ju-ju beans to him, what he calls creative writing. I call it dementia.

11:50 am: Judge Jo: The Court finds the accused innocent of all charges lodged against him by this clueless waif. I don’t know about the rest of you but I got an essay to write by the end of class on what’s the good of life and if I don’t get it done I'll turn into Rasputin, whoever that is. I know exactly what to say: To ramble or not to ramble, that is the question, . . . and the answer! Essay done and time to spare! A+

Journey to the Shore

The song is beautiful; the singer gone

The best of us are lonely and forever in love

Maybe not tonight but soon this silence

Though there is a chill in the air Ono still purrs

The girls chatter happily. Who can help but smile

Sea and sky are one. So too the sand

In the distance, I hear a voice. An echo

Words. Distant thunder

No two alike. This night and day

Alone at last: earth air fire water

PoetryMatters 15

Comments (0)

HUMBUGGERY

If I could have found the words, I would have stopped teaching on my own. Telling my students that I really didn’t know what I was talking about and that they would have to figure it out on their own, just like me, 74 years old, fifty years into a teaching career, still standing in front of them like a ricket-racked escapee from a home for wannabe poets, spouting nonsense that they benignly mistake for wisdom -- like the world is our soul inside out, a psychedelic mirror only an ardent Narcissus could love – none of that worked. The students knew I didn’t believe there was such a thing as a soul but they still thought I was onto something. That much was true, I was after something that would put me on the Road again, some meandering mumbo jumbo by which I could convince myself I really did know something grand and true and set me off wandering again in this dismal November rain. If I could find it, I could quit, since there would then be no point in going on with this charade. Teaching is all about searching for meaning. If you ever found the key to it all, you could bid your students good luck and goodbye, your last words as you walked out the door, “See you in Tulsa.” Didn’t they know that the writing I assigned them was a thinly contrived excuse for me to find the words? You see, while I was hired to teach these innocents, to have them read the golden oldies so that they could discover what had oft been thought, but ne’er so well expressed, I instead had them write and wrote along with them. But here’s the kicker – If I did somehow find the words, the writing assignments, the whole house of cards would collapse and I would be a free man. The students would be on their own and no doubt some of them would become teachers someday, throwing sand in the eyes of their students and making them dream.
But then it happened – not the words yet, but one day Daisy What’s-Her-Name realized she really wasn’t learning anything and complained to the administration – her parents, she said, were paying good money for her to attend this school and here was this sad excuse for a teacher telling his students not to let school get in the way of their education. His teaching was nothing but the worst sort of humbuggery, the sort where the humbugger tells you to your face that what he’s selling is bogus, though she used other words like fake, senile, lost. She may have mentioned dementia. It was like they had suspected this all along. The next day I was gone, the memory circuits of the institution simply deleted me and rebooted. It was as if I had never existed, let alone ever taught at the school. I was on my own, but now the words came to me unbidden – it was surprising because the words sounded like a question and I had all this time been looking for something else (I confess some small part of me, some primitive generous impulse, was calling out to students who no longer even knew my name – it’s a question, ask the right question and you can get on with your life). Abjectly kneeling before a beaming Aristotle, I asked, Why me? Why not a zombie? and was good to go.

PoetryMatters 13

Sweet Mary

Sweet Mary down on the farm

took my hand and led me on
down to where the river wept
and lay with me while I slept..

Now it is of her I dream,
lost forever in the river’s tears.

I never meant no harm

And don't you know it,

What will be always was

And don't you know it,

What was wasn't.

It's like when we say,

I never meant no harm

But hurts before

The man the boy strikes

Down the father, cold

And stiff beneath the stone.

PoetryMatters 12

PoetryMatters 11

Call it love, an irrational equation

2(y² – 9) = 2

Discussion of the 'Irrational'

HH: David, is this just a stupid equation? (I was fiddling around trying to make a mathematical expression for love): 2(y² – 9) = 2 / Call it Love.

DM: I wouldn’t say any equation is stupid, but I’m not sure exactly why that one would evoke “love”. There are equations that yield graphs that are quite distinctly heart-shaped, though
.

HH: Does the square root of 10 result in an infinite, non-repeating decimal?

DM: Indeed it does.

HH: So then, what is the value of ‘y’ in this equation?

DM: y would equal plus or minus root(10), to be sure.

HH: Would it be fair to call this an ‘irrational’ equation?

DM: You would definitely say its solutions are irrational, but it wouldn’t be standard to call the equation itself “irrational” since the numbers actually appearing in it are rational.

HH: I am looking for a little poetic license.

DM: With poetic license, one could definitely refer to it as an “irrational equation."

(DM is Dr. David Metzler)

Love is so strange

Every time he looked at her he scowled. She finally had enough and asked him what his problem was. He said, “You’re so beautiful. I can’t help myself.” She didn’t understand. “But your face is so ugly when you look at me?” He didn’t understand and, of course, all the while he was scowling and making himself look ugly. Finally, she asked, “Can you smile?” and he answered, “I thought I was.” “No, a smile looks like this,” and she smiled for him. He scowled. Then, for some reason, she kissed him. When people see the two of them together now, hand in hand, he scowling and she smiling, they wonder aloud, “What an odd couple!" Love is so strange.

Leonora's Photography: 82 - 86

La forêt dénudée

« Forêts, montagnes, ne sont pas seulement des concepts, sont notre expérience et notre histoire, une part de nous-mêmes. »

F. Nietzsche, philosophe allemand (1844-1900) in "Humain trop humain; frag. posthumes."

Perles de pluie
(Ruellia Smplex)

Prismes

Equinoxe

Elargir son horizon

***

"(..)

La mer se mêle avec la mer

Mélange ses lacs et ses flaques

Ses idées de mouettes et d'écumes

Ses rêves d'algues et de cormorans

Aux lourds chrysanthèmes bleus du large

Aux myosotis en touffes sur les murs blancs des îles

Aux ecchymoses de l'horizon, aux phares éteints

Aux songes du ciel impénétrable (..)

(Jean-Michel Maulpoix, poète français né en 1952, in "Dans l'Interstice")

Leonora on Flickr.

My Pick-Up Line

Be brave! No more sneaking around, no more affectation!
What great soul said that? Yours, of course! One soul
seeks another, that's how it knows where to go.
You and I the same, same with wings and wind.
if you keep hiding, you may prove
you don't exist at all, no hands no feet,
not those beautiful eyes that catch the sky
(yes, your eyes are beautiful. It's never a lie.)
no joy or grief, just an echo that dims.
Listen! the ringing in your ear is the tolling of your soul:
it's time, it's time, it's time, it's damn well time already!
Enough of all this hiding only to lose, a soul
only knows itself as the moon --
the one becomes two.
The less we fear and sooner than now
the more we can dance and dance our own tune.
Let the kite go and be where it goes.
That's poetry! It's like falling in love,
Hey there, beautiful, where ya goin?
I'm going with you.

(Can you tell I wrote this on a wish of a prayer?
It comes as it goes and foregoes all despair.)

Ber's Photography: 309-313

Self-Portrait

Street Musician

Ber on Flickr

PoetryMatters 10

PoetyMatters I-7

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Download PoetryMatters 7September 5

Faulkner's Poetic Style / Orpheus in Black

For those not familiar with Faulkner's writing, this passage from his short story "Pantaloon in Black" will serve as an introduction to his genius. The context is that Rider's wife Mannie has died and he is returning home to what is no longer a home and, in a fleeting moment, very much like when Orpheus helplessly tries to embrace the ghost of his beloved Eurydice, she bids him farewell. Rider and Mannie are a black couple, living in the Mississippi of the 1940s. With Mannie's death, Rider understands that his home, rented from a white man, was never really his. With the collapse of this illusion, Rider's world and the life he had hoped to build with Mannie comes to an end. Again, very much like Orpheus, who was consolable, his singing now making those same mountains and trees that once echoed with the beauty of his song moan with heart-wrenching elegy. The Maenads put an end to it, dismembering him with their bare hands, and tossed his head into the Hebrus river, where it continued to sing. A kind of lynching. Rider's story also continues to haunt us -- it seemingly will never stop. The comparison of Rider to Orpheus does nothing to sanitize Faulkner's story because it is part of our own history. The mark of Faulkner's genius is especially upon the sentence that begins, "She was going fast now, . . . " The sentence ends with the verb "was' and has no grammatical subject, which seems appropriate to me, the barrier between life and death being invisible just as it is between the present and the past..

Then the dog left him. The light pressure went off his flank; he heard the click and hiss of its claws on the wooden floor as it surged away and he thought at first that it was fleeing. But it stopped just outside the front door, where he could see it now, and the upfling of its head as the howl began, and then he saw her too. She was standing in the kitchen door, looking at him. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe nor speak until he knew his voice would be all right, his face fixed too not to alarm her. “Mannie,” he said. “Hit’s awright. Ah aint afraid.” Then he took a step toward her, slow, not even raising his hand yet, and stopped. Then he took another step. But this time as soon as he moved she began to fade. He stopped at once, not breathing again, motionless, willing his eyes to see that she had stopped too. But she had not stopped. She was fading, going. “Wait,” he said, talking as sweet as he had ever heard his voice speak to a woman: “Den lemme go wid you, honey.” But she was going. She was going fast now, he could actually feel between them the insuperable barrier of that very strength which could handle alone a log which would have taken any two other men to handle, of the blood and bones and flesh too strong, invincible for life, having learned at least once with his own eyes how tough, even in sudden and violent death, not a young man’s bones and flesh perhaps but the will of that bone and flesh to remain alive, actually was.

Then she was gone. . . .

(Italics mine)

hhimwich is the author of all poems and other writing unless indicated otherwise.

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David Chalmers: Fragments of consciousness

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The big wind, pressof leaf, earth-edgewho creeps there

The blue city of Rajasthan- La ville bleue du Rajasthan

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Faire une parenthèse

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Bande à par

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Glacier (Southern Alps; New Zealand)

© Leonora; all rights reserved

© Leonora; all rights reservedA la lisière de la rizière

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Méandres

J o n g l e r

Offrande

© Leonora; all rights reserved

La forêt dénudée

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Perles de pluie (Ruellia Smplex)

© Leonora; all rights reserved

© Leonora; all rights reserved

© Leonora; all rights reserved

Elargir son horizon

The big wind, press
of leaf, earth-edge
who creeps there

© Leonora; all rights reserved
A la lisière de la rizière

Perles de pluie
(Ruellia Smplex)