The umbels of the milkweed, false birds hiding their faces;
the interplay of ripples and reflections in the stolid river
bring to mind first the memory of watercolors, the white museum
walls, light and water intermingling, a representation more
real than the thing itself. Cut-ups bring out the truth
more than speaking it directly. Reaching back through the
duckweed, we feel the fronds of past dreams caressing our faces.