My photographer’s text said,
accompanying his photo of
sheep-fluffy clouds rendered

in black and white, as Ansel
often did, finessing the swells
of whites and grays and blacks,

deftly rendering the sky in an
intermediate shade so that
a viewer doesn’t miss the color.

Isn’t that the way of it? We often
linger in the gray undersides,
forgetting that just above

lies the light, that if we step
back a bit, the sorrow that
threatens to rain down on us

billows bright around the edges.
Mr. Adams knew this well,
and we see his genius

not only in his iconic photos
but also in the buoyant pillows
drifting over us today,

taking on all manner of shapes,
periodically shading the sun.
We have only to look up and

see a heart in the cotton ball
cumulus floating overhead —
a little ragged, like ours,

such extraordinary light
refracting into the sweetest
delight.

•••

In memory of Ansel Adams
and in honor of Dick Schmidt,
the photographer who holds my heart.