I am not a photographer, I am not a film maker, I am not a poet, I am not a writer, I am not an artist. My small nameless camera and I just trim the abundant weeds from my wild garden. Dirty hands from softening soil, courageous eyes caress my coward climbing vines. If a bird pays a visit I may smile in deep content. If a delicate flower dies I may cry it out in silence. When a naked tree grows, in the middle of this laxity, it’s untainted mardi grass celebration of my soul.