In that place where dreams come to life...
Where we visit our heart's delight.
Like, at the circus of older times.
With brilliant colors flashing about, sparkles and bright lights.
There our dreams are catapulted, taking flight.
On those magical circus nights.
I work on a painting I've been adding to for one year.
Bits and bobs of paint.
Orbs of light.
Dances at midnight.
This place I have gone to night after night.
In a painting.
I break to add dry flowers here and there.
I walk outside in the heat.
Ripe pomegranates beckon.
Begging to be a still life.
If only I could channel Vermeer I whisper to them.
Lamenting and joking, all at once.
I slowly bite into the succulence of those fleshy sweet seeds.
Hot from the sun.
I'd like to finish a bit of my work before I go off on my tiny sorta sabbatical in a couple weeks.
They beg me to finish them.
Layers and layers of paint in dance.
Pieces that had voyaged off a year ago are returning...
While we make a visit to the magical cypress grove, only to find that everything (as expected), continues to be hunky dory lovely in that neck of the woods.
I stroll through my garden.
I have taken out many annuals.
But many others still gift.
Just like that a butterfly circles out of the sky and lands at my feet.
In a garden where it was born, it goes to sleep.
Such beauty and peace and yes, a little sadness.
Always the reminder of fragility and beauty, tied together like the tattered pages of your favorite fairy tales. The pages you got from your gran's gran.
I put the butterfly in a glass case.
Then I return to collect petals.
Petals in colors you'd think could only exist in paint.
And yet, there they are.
Growing out of the ground, in spectacular shades.
Ready to take you back into your imagination, back to canvas and paintbrush.
Where you belong.
Faintly in the background, The Gravel Road plays.
And so, I am taken back to my paint.
(but first I have to scrub the floor)
Anything beckoning you these days?
Tugging on those heart string?
Calling your name?