Farewell

Dear readers,

Many of you over the years have commented on the grace and beauty of my dog Angie. It is with great sadness that I must announce to you that she passed away on Tuesday night. Words cannot express my devastation. How could i let my butterfly angel fly away?

The mirror is broken and i cannot see a way forward for this blog. i really appreciate the small group of loyal readers that have seen fit to populate these pages with their poetry of spirit. After all, it's all about spirit, isn't it? But when the spirit flies away--only shattered fairyland glass remains.

Prospero

African Dream

Flame of the Forest: Spathodea campanulata

Aloe comosa inflorescence with pinky-lilac oleander gouache.

Spiral Ginger

Costus barbatus

les fleurs du mal

yellow

Adenium obesum

Her straw-colored hair, as soft as the witchery of the day's first light.

Rhinestone gloves are all the rage in convulsively hot climates (and so chic for the hectoring heliophile).

"All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up."

Le déluge

hommage à Magritte

Beth's cluster of hearts

Erythrina crista-galli: The Coral Tree

for you

My beak always makes such sharp shadows.

Such beccal considerations are frequent in self-conscious birds and, as it turns out, gawky teenagers. Luckily, most feathery homeowners don't give a hoot (i'm speaking figuratively, since the literal sound of the late-on-his-mortage-payment owl certainly crossed your mind) about light and shadow.

He lost his pocket watch in a flowery field, which seemed to him to be nothing more than a large family of identical siblings, each sharing the secret of the moment the clasp, after years of unheralded service, gave way to the coarse, stupidly predictable forces of attrition. The sun, an able co-conspirator, hid behind a large fleecy cloud, its rays unable to glint on the watch's silvery face (oh what a temptation that must have been) and, with great discipline, averting an unforgivable betrayal, the spotting of a feathery foxhole by an irate and timeless field ambler. Even the cicadas, whose chirr has adapted over the years to mask half-hearted ticktocks, were part of the dastardly plan to deny him the likelyhood of showing up to Sunday school on time.

My violet-tinted blood tingles at the clandestine approach of spring. How do I know it's nearly spring? A wildflowery siren announced it just the other day.

Garden of the Hesperides

vortex

hierophany

How beautiful are ancient guides, so keenly aware, for instance, of the barely perceptible susurration of a cortege of ants, so well versed in the viridescent languages (such as the whisper of grasses), so surprisingly replete of cosmopolitan abilities.

When asked a question, one as evocative as the type often asked by small demons, i recalled the splendor of the violet shade you once stepped into.