Dinesh's photos with the keyword: Cellphone image

"The flowers that keep Their odor to themselves all day; But when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about." - Anonymous

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Taking a nap feet planted against a cool wall ~ Basho en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matsuo_Bash%C5%8D HWW -- Have a great day

I am so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers ~ L.M. Montgomery

As the poet said, 'Only God can make a tree,' probably because it's so hard to figure out how to get the bark on. ~ Woody Allen

The grass is covered with a brittle frost, As customers line up At the clapboard house, Under the painted sign of a mortor And the club for crushing powders In the bay window display Apothecary bottles One of the old fashioned scales With its outspread pans Like the arms of a crucifix, Jars of Bromo-seltzer. Folded up wheelchairs A brested dummy’s mastectomy bra. Now the door opens with a cattail Of jingles, the vintage cash register Rings up its penny change, And inside the coughs and sneezes, The addicts slumped in their niches Trying to hoodwink the pharmacist By tapping their counterfeit canes And from isles, the fishy smell Of vitamins and ointments Where heavy feet pace The cracked wooden floor Wearing a path down to dust Looking for something “Pharmacy” ~ Judith Harris

Baudelaire considers you his brother, and Fielding calls out to you every few paragraphs as if to make sure you have not closed the book, and now I am summoning you up again, attentive ghost, dark silent figure standing in the doorway of these words. Pope welcomes you into the glow of his study, takes down a leather-bound Ovid to show you. Tennyson lifts the latch to a moated garden, and with Yeats you lean against a broken pear tree, the day hooded by low clouds. But now you are here with me, composed in the open field of this page, no room or manicured garden to enclose us, no Zeitgeist marching in the background, no heavy ethos thrown over us like a cloak. Instead, our meeting is so brief and accidental, unnoticed by the monocled eye of History, you could be the man I held the door for this morning at the bank or post office or the one who wrapped my speckled fish. You could be someone I passed on the street or the face behind the wheel of an oncoming car. The sunlight flashes off your windshield, and when I look up into the small, posted mirror, I watch you diminish—my echo, my twin— and vanish around a curve in this whip of a road we can't help traveling together. ~ Billy Collins