Dear Hillside,
I keep seeing you, at this time of year, separating into patches of color; the flaxen hair, yes, and the gray green of star thistle, the brighter yellow and green of mustard. It interferes, this patchiness with my enjoyment of your form; my stupid, sluggish artist eyes want less surface 'the better to see you with, my dear; the better to eat you with, my dear.' But, that is all such simplistic simplifying; the kind I want to turn down in the great soundboard of my mind. Trying to see essentials has trained me to annoyance with small details and difference, and what a pity!
Please let me try again, to see and love the prickly, invasive patches, the discrete surfaces, and the larger form they dwell upon. I want you, like you are, with all the prickles and snagging bitter sharpnesses. Why would I learn to love only smooth undifferentiated expanses?
