I remember the rice fields, the poet said,
and, nostalgia is never out of date.

I remember isolation, a tree-lined avenue, bees kept in white boxes, the awkwardness of a conversation, bay laurel picked fresh, chiffon waving in the breeze, an end feeling unfinished.

you have to know where to look for
them, but the handprints are still there

trying to draw attention to the sublime, the way a picture is framed and what is cropped out — no highways, no powerlines, no people — nothing to intrude on the romantic image. as though when we say such things, what is meant is meant as a promise, a new awareness aching and to own is not to remember holding.

she says landscape photography is a sin