The small world I first saw through a viewfinder was a flower.
It was a distant spring — a memory akin to expired film.
The flower, once photographed, became a "photograph" and must be sleeping somewhere.
I captured the record, but did I capture the memory?
A wind from a new season blows, creating a rhythm.
A stone laughs with an unbothered face.
Petals, having lost their balance, waltzed as they fell.
Your color was added to the concrete canvas.
I saw the memory rise.