“We should like Nature to go no further; we should like it to be finite, like our mind; but this is to ignore the greatness and majesty of the Author of things.”
—Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, 1715
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for my dear friends who amply supply
pictures of the infinity of nature
daily
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the comfort food of your
living-loving-eyeshot
screenings  of moments preservations of

the delicate and the roughened,
the mystical and magical of
our creative globe’s ad and mis
ventures,
oft far from the paths of human ruination
trafficking

these photos

the first of the day,
signaling white smoke rising or
the full fledged regular milky
insertion photographic
into the mine daily awakening
of the
purpled majesty of the world
when ******* pleasure of
first coffees of life’s days

and how it pleases me,
that there is no
conceptual conceivable,
that there will not be an
finishing enthralling,

a last never-before-witnessed
visionary submission
without
a never finite ending to this
infinite processional!

thus no need to say with
them ordinary wordy pleas of/to:
“keep them coming,”

for by your read acknowledgement of
this here poem,
you have cosigned this
contractual
o b l i g a t i o n

and I say
an ecstatic
Thank You

Laughter skips across the surface of the lake like a skipping stone emanating different eerie high-pitched tones that seem to echo the ghostly chirps of birds that have gone quiet and no longer fly. Nothing like one would imagine a stone's speech to be like.

A fine flat surface water-weaves itself once more. Nothing threatens to disturb it again. Not even bubbling from below. There are no thermal vents with life growing along their warm edges. No aquatic life beneath that unknowingly breathes its wishes which are carried to the surface and up into the blank slate of a sky.

Beneath it all is a cool concrete floor much like the ones in any backyard pool in the suburbs. Nothing of nature, of adaptability. Only neutral stone at its depths.