The Leaves are Laughing

“The Leaves are Laughing” Painted Leaves – My Artwork – November 2018

A thousand green leaves thick
Seeking sunshine
Inviting Bach and song birds into its arms
Caterpillars bristling under the breezes
Purple lichen and spider’s laces
Sacred places
Dark blood Pluto
Stirring the truth in my bones
Leaves turning yellow
Mottled brown
The blazing orange of autumn
Falling into the thick, black mud
Covering discarded twigs
Sheltering snakes and beetles
Waiting for the frost
Dancing on underground roots
Embracing enticing perfumes
And, the silhouette of a hawk
Etched into the clouds
Laughing at the afternoon moon
And, the arrival of winter


Tomorrow and Tomorrow

“Tomorrow and Tomorrow” My Painted Leaf – Autumn 2018

A lonely leaf, yellow, orange, crimson red
Only half way in this world
The other half is dead
Fallen, disconnected
Weighed down by gravity and  time
And, the winds insist on tomorrow
And, tomorrow, and tomorrow
Even if tomorrow is the Day of the Dead
Even if the world turns into winter
Nothing to do but celebrate the dances of the seasons
And, watch while the tilt of the earth
Becomes a blanket for seeds
And, a nest for sprouting weeds
Someday, in the returning spring

Edge of the Woods


"Edge of the Woods"
“Edge of the Woods” pastel on paper

If I were there, I would run through the golden fields, chasing the sun, running south, towards the horizon. I would catch him before the solstice arrives, before he gets entirely away. I would run, through golden meadows, the wind in my hair with birds on the wing. I would sing, I would fly, high, in the sky, above. Oh, my love! Run with me. I would run with you, I would run through, golden fields and meadows, rare, the wind in my hair. You are the one. Run with me. Run with me, chasing the sun.

Transition – The Forest

The Forest – “Days Before Winter” faux lithograph
The Forest – “Winter Days” – faux lithograph

Paint what you love.

I love the seasons, the weather, the breath and the heartbeat of the earth, the change over, the switch between autumn’s old age and the bleak winter wherein life slows down, stops, hibernates, the festivals of stars, the everlasting, immortal stars, and the celebration of the wobble of the earth, not so extreme as to throw us all into the danger of extinction, but, to remind us of possibilities. To celebrate our good fortune. Time to rest, to contemplate, to reflect, to tell stories.

Walk through the woods, in the quiet of the afternoon or in a dream. At what moment does the season change?