068



not knowing how to suffer,
there were those who would turn to her;
leaving themselves as offerings
in little heaps of ash.

.
.

067



wedding her tears
to the moon,
she illuminated
even the darkest
of dreams.

.
.

066



even when arrayed
with a thousand
adornments,
she would remain
unadorned.

.
.

065



with the tiniest,
most subtle of gestures,
or even with none,
all was accomplished.

.
.

064



the infinity within,
it too would gently
reveal itself.

.
.

063



it was not that
any were islands,
but that she was
an ocean.

.
.

062



even when she saw the world
about to be engulfed,
she wouldn’t intervene.
and, though the bulk
would vanish there,
from the darkness
a more innocent light
would blossom.

.
.

061



her body a garden
from which a single lily
has strayed.

.
.

060



mysteriously,
there was no mystery.

.
.

059



and there were times too
when beauty was concealed
in the withered,
when the blossom
would shed its petals
to reveal the ineffable wonder
that is an empty heart.

.
.

058



she had no memories,
only longing.

.
.

057



refuge,
when needed,
could only be sought
in the open.

.
.

056



time was simply
the expansion of her being
in which all things
were revelation.

.
.


just so you know...



Wedding the images of Roxana Ghita with text by Michael Tweed, the beautiful foolishness of things is the gentle companion to however fallible: the revolution of everyday life.

Unless otherwise noted all images © Roxana Ghita, text © Michael Tweed.