"...For although memories, of a season, for example,
Melt into a single snapshot,one cannot guard, treasure,
That stalled moment. It is too flowing, fleeting;
It is a picture of flowing, scenery, though living, mortal,
Over which an abstract action is laid out in blunt,
Harsh strokes. And to ask more than this
Is to become the tossing reeds of the slow,
Powerful stream, the trailing grasses
Playfully tugged at, but to participate in the action
No more than this." John Ashbery
1 comment:
You hit it pretty close to the mark. Better than I can recall anything. Only: "Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup," I think that's it. Almost it. But probably wrong.
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