I collect clouds...
Cirrus, Nimbus, Fronts and Cumuli,
I love them all ...
The sky gives me vertigo...
And flowers bring me back
to the beauty of the earth.
I have been painting sticks and sewing bits
to make things.
My sewing basket contains inherited bits,
and Granny ...
The treasures of my hoard,
and of the women of my blood before me...
And the essences they carry
push forth soft things
Like pillows of linen
and foraged buttons
And in jars I keep a myriad of ephemera,
For use in future projects.
I preserve cicada shells in shellac and PVA,
Feathers and flowers in my freezer,
Broken threads and necklaces
And Bits of Christmas Wreaths
I Plan For The F U T U R E....
One day, at 45 degrees, I went to observe the locked swimming pool...
The sign lies,
It was September when they closed it.
Concrete gets cancer as well.
Country Music Festival Time
for picnics in the park,
A glass of white wine,
and barely cooked broccoli with piles of ginger
with miso paste dressing
And for jealousy over the collection of crochet blankets owned by camels.
There is treasure in the grass.
And the four o'clock flowers blossom
well into the evening
in front of the bowls shed.
The clouds tease,
But no precipitation comes
And I purchase an everlasting daisy for my handbag-pot
Then a morning front provides cooler days
For sweatless bluegrass breakfasts
And drum circle joy
The heat does not bother the baby black-birds
third clutch of the season
Bothers my seedlings immensely...
(in fact, they are metabolised....)
My feet walk,
Through the flowers,
C r u n c h y....
is upon us.
(despite lack of cool change or rain)
Then a long drive,
with good friends
and terrible music,
To deliver love and flowers to a new
Mother and Baby
And for a few days,
I will eat the fruit of cactus
and tiny fruit tarts
And read Artlink with my legs in the sun
And a list of lovely people to see.
More to come....