We’ve never met—not in the way
the wind meets leaves, or hands find hands.
Yet through poetry and photographs,
I glimpse a world my heart understands.
A stranger bends to light and shadow,
capturing silence in golden skies.
I write of woods, dusk, and solitude —
his art responds, though unaware of my eyes.
His lens leans close to the effect of lights:
from the sky to waters, and the structures beneath.
I linger in the quiet spaces,
where admiration hides in gentle delight.
He knows I love the sun’s descent,
how it spills secrets across the sky.
And when I see that amber stillness,
I wonder if it speaks to me too.
No declarations, no confessions—
just verses left like fallen leaves.
And in return, his photographs
echo something my heart believes.


