A small poem on process

I have a lot of feelings. How can photographs so accurately and succinctly express the undulating swell that is even one human experience and their feelings; this expanse that, when comes to mind, you can only picture a cross-section of water and air, as if in a tank of glass, but that stretches on eternal. How do you express that the smallest things brush you like atomic bombs and that the rain smells sweetest when it is warm?


It is not the photograph I take but the photograph I choose that holds the honey.