Winter Transport

Waiting for the Bus,
Cold burns through the soles of my boots.
Crow cocks his head at my strange dance
in the narrow band of pale sunlight
streaming weakly between the buildings.

A collection

a bouquet of yellow maple leaves collected under blue fall sky
crushed by my son's small hands a day after first snow
a goose or duck down feather
onion skins peeled by my daughter who has just learned to walk and my son awaiting patiently for her to talk
mouse droppings
a dust bunny of my last orange cat's hair and mine and bits of us all
sand from the lake
sand from the beach
a glass shard from the smashed shot glass

Artist Shaman

Every time I see an exposition of contemporary art I think it: Artists are today's Shamans.

The mundane and the sacred are irrevocably connected in my mind. The acts of cleaning, washing, sweeping, cooking, sorting, burning become spell making, the careful attention and awareness brought to the activity become intent. I learn as I go and trust my intuition. It tells me when I need to do my work.

Sitting

envelope

something

a crumb.
a red rosehip.
this way.
shhhh.
sit and listen.