the uncaptured

there is only so much room, so many pixels here, for me to put down this sliver of a sunday afternoon in the grass. and for every snapshot there are a thousand unsnapped, unsaved, and unremembered. everything besides these little photographic pinpoints gets set free to dissolve or to die.

or maybe all the uncaptured moments will retain at least a thin connection to the captured ones, and float just behind in the wake of recollections.

what else can I write, and will the words really evoke the precise temperature of that spot, the exact ratio of sun and shade, the rhythm of the breeze flitting my books' pages back and forth, or the array of tiny ants exploring my purple blanket?