An artist, a painter, seeker + meditator, photographer, fair-weather gardener, writer + poet, grape grower, grandmother, sky-watcher and English rose lover.
My head and heart dwell both in the earth and the sky.
seeking the pots of color mago.
My mind a magic space long before I tread this rocky road.
Always a healing place if willing to turn over stones, gathering up gifts of fallen feathers and bones.
I am and am not. I do but don’t. I always will.
I know no other way to be in my world nor would I change many things…
Perhaps I could dabble in gray clay.
Once on the beach with crones, I massaged the cold hard lump.
I learned much and very little.
So often the way.
I made a skull with a hole I slowly carved from one side to other.
Organic, my mark-making held meanings, polished with stones.
Now vanished along my wandering way.
Gone into the earth again.
Color is my muse, my only power and deepest spring, filled with healing power.
I’ve learned one thing well…
No thing ever stays the same.
To everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.