Leaves of Frost - On Glass

Leaves of Frost (on Glass) Leaves of frost (fueled by more intimate breathing that thickens glass panes) interpose art, between life's adlibs and detritus. Should life mock a dead stars' diasporic aspects. Through eons of "spacetime," mute murals form fractals, eclipse all the patterns the mind of man dreams? Day's light shines through cave windows we mold now above ground to shelter, keep safe, things that life will hold dear, though they're death knell for entropy. Fanciful cobwebs appear sans a spider (all somethings with brains?) that gives motive to artist. Are thoughts then just patterns, a Rorschach whose meaning's in eye of beholder, faux leaves etched on glass? "Oh shoot, God seen here's present? Faith never had prayer, if God has no schemes?" Though most needs do get met, is that God? Are such thoughts out of kelter? You know? Life evolved to fit space, space to life? "What will be, will be!" Brian Johnston 24th of December in 2022