The moon, already on its journey across the sun, Shrouded that brilliant orb in transmutation, Daylight to dusk. And slipping into the warm waters under Those pin oaks, with sharp awareness of this Attenuated, lucent light, Realized this strange, changes air has the same depth As on that last day when I walked out of time, Away from you, Into another forever.
Watching evening clouds Puff into glorious billows. Traditions long upheld. I watch the rainbow hues Puff into glorious billows. This little dog seated by me, I watch the rainbow hues. You would love This little dog seated by me. Alba, not here yet a week, You would love This quiet heart, mellow spirit Alba, not here yet a week, Traditions long upheld, This quiet heart, mellow spirit. Watching evening clouds.
The Studio at Line's End Farm is where I paint and try to find some joy again, and some equilibrium, not simple these days. One weblog records thoughts, ideas, methods and mixtures, palettes, observations, actually anything that intrigues me concerning my painting and working in the studio. Another observes only the horse in paintings that I find influential. The last are done for my sanity. All are my opinion only, open to other suggestions.
I will write in red, for my dear, love; who never saw red, not in ink, not in ire.
In 2010, the cold went beyond ten decades, was a century mark of hard winter through the mid-atlantic. For one small household banked by an Eastern Shore river this winter was epochal.
