Hidden in a toolbox, in the rafters of his four-car garage, was an envelope full of pictures taken by a private detective...They were pictures of a scrawny, boyish looking nine year old with a wide mouth and a tangle of brown hair...Her eyes were oblong and deep set, their color hidden from the camera by the slant of the sun. The angles and planes of her face were oddly beautiful just then, in that moment, frozen on Kodak paper. A hint of the woman she would someday become.
Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
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Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
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