By Malinda Meadows

The camera is an eye
For a human mouth
Who speaks of things uncertain,
Visage clothed in doubt.
The camera shutter shudders
And instantly
The present turns into a memory
Time slinks by
A slinky or a string
Spiraling and coiling
to the place it once began.
In every smiling face
The golden ratio
Repeating again.
Fibonacci sequences
Connect fibers of reality
With golden threads of lace
That just barely veil the truth
The camera can’t efface.