texture

girl

pretty..

rest revisited

Rest is not idleness,

and to lie sometimes on the grass

under trees on a summer's day,

listening to the murmur of the water,

or watching the clouds float across the sky

...is by no means a waste of time.

----John Lubbuck

rest

tattered ironstone

dreaming of the next cycle of my life. too many dishes,
too many recipes to try, and pretty linen aprons. 
more time with my child, heavy blankets, feeling safe.

fraktur

a hessian fraktur, lancaster county historical society. love.

spinning

the price

    There is love of course. And then there's life, its enemy.
                                                              -Jean Anouilh

yard work

cant you see dozens of these?  filled with fresh lettuces in the winter and brimming over with heirloom melons that crack in your hands when perfectly ripe in the summer. fresh basil for your pesto in the late autumn, a sprig of lavender for your pillow so you can sleep in january. all painted the same green as the steps and soon the doors, so that it is an evergreen area in the coldest and loneliest part of winter. filled with soil that was processed with your own hands.  little green boxes of hope, life and renewal.

lionel and annie

lust

fireworks

fourth of july.

left work early. stolen time. brought a ricketty wood chair that i found in the dump in surry, virginia up to

the top of the yard, above the pear tree and the barn, past the blackberries and all of those soybeans. and i sat.

smelled like coffee. the fireflies- so many, millions it seems. dizzying. then booms, bouncing off the trees. fireworks from every town, presented themselves to me, five different displays at once. and me alone on my wooden chair with a chilled bottle bottle of muscato d' asti and a full heart.

moment captured

a moment captured, wed night. fireflies. lavender.and heavy mint in the breeze.

sitting on the rocking chair, facing the spring house. the night is just about here- not quite dark yet because i can still see the paper without the porch light. the woods and field are twinkling. if you just relax your eyes you wont get so dizzy watching the firflies. the rain breeze is blowing, it will thunder. i can smell it, metallic warmth. my girl is inside drawing- it is a picture of her and i dipping candles. billy joel is on the radio, barely louder than a whisper.
the rain wind is blowing the smell of the half burnt poplar from the fire pit. leaning on an old cookbook, has a recipe for apple frenchies, a version of french toast made with applesauce, cinnamon, nutmeg,and buttermilk. my mind drifts to next autumn. apple sauce, made with green apples,raw sugar, too much butter and white wine. so good.