Fresh Produce

 I remember walking with him, a hill side, we were inky against the horizon (to anyone who would have looked up and seen us from below) dark shapes moving slowly across the line.


We were complimented beautifully.




I have the prettiest cat, he leans in on me while I type out this nothingness, proud to be mine.
I- proud to be his.

He wipes the insides of his ears over the keyboard. We listen to Midlake. He likes it a lot. Cat face smile.

Yesterday was fun, despite a parking ticket paired with green jealousy going up in smoke.

We drank cider and wine and port as the angel played in the garden, picking the herbs, and sometimes hitting the dog. She ended up in the studio, painting painting with him.

He sees the free spirit of her inhale and exhale with liberated abandonment.
I shall try and learn from her example. Paint with my heart in my hand.

I remember being two, and talking to cows. But I don't remember painting.

 I wish I could, and I hope I did.

The handblown pink glass vase rests by the bed full of peonies. The water from the night before sits quietly.

I sigh and sigh and sigh, to the Faroe islands we go...a happy dream, almost afloat.