Felt In Passing

Photographs of my ...

By Jaclyn Sollars

I have a little book of photography for sale. I'd love it if you'd come take a look.

I.

Sometimes I find myself

still in the grips of your

schoolyard poetry;

your voice, grit in my memory.

The feel of your hands,

cool and dry and boney hard,

has stayed on the palms of my

own.

In my head

I've confused you

with the other ones too often

and I'm sorry for that.

You were a different story

altogether, all the time.

II.

Then, there were a thousand

summers in every summer.

There were a thousand words

in your mouth for me.

But how often those words

were about me I cannot say.

On July nights we would

drive from my house to yours;

from your house to mine-

all the fireflies like stars in the wheat.

because that's what makes it beautiful

Originally uploaded by Jaci Sue

I was standing in this little log church that was built in the early 1800s and it was just starting to rain. There was a glassless window there and I leaned out to see how hard it was coming down and I saw this; this perfect light.

There is something in these things that we see every day that holds magic. To name it would be useless. It's been here all this time and hasn't needed a name yet.

There's an angel that nests in the tree of life

There's an angel that nests in the tree of life
Originally uploaded by Jaci Sue

There was a man in Tennessee who lost his wife in mysterious circumstances. He was so struck by her death, so aggrieved, that he (who had never done anything like it before) took up a hammer and a chisel and began to carve her a grave stone.
On the cross is the tree of life and atop the tree is an angel. On the left side of the cross it says "truth" and on the right, "life".
The stone was found unfinished by the tree in which he hung himself.