The sparkle of approaching spring. Hidden these past 3 days behind a curtain of rain & cold, cold weather. Totally unfair of spring to show herself - don't you think of spring as a her? - and then disappear for a bit, but she has done just that, leaving me to prowl through images taken a bit earlier in the year, looking for evidence that she was here. All the blossoms from this little tree are long gone, but there is a white white white dogwood across the street that is absolutely shameless in its beauty, drooping quite gracefully across the creek, and I have vowed to take its portrait as soon as the rain allows. I tried last year to capture it, but failed quite miserably, and I may fail again, but I may not, and that possibility is enough to make me put on black rubber boots and slog through leftover leaves & wet wet just-blooming azaleas and whisper sweet nothings across the water, for the lovely dogwood of which I speak lives behind a fence and I am too shy to ask permission to enter. Although perhaps I will. Perhaps the rain will move away and I will see the tree's keepers and I will find bravery within myself and I will just ask. We wave at each other, these people and I, and yet my shyness holds me back. Perhaps the dogwood is purposely enticing me, wanting me to cross the creek, wanting me close - perhaps the fallen flowers of the tulip tree have skipped across the street and whispered their own sweet nothings to the dogwood, but perhaps their sweet nothings were sweet somethings, and perhaps those sweet somethings have tempted the dogwood to tempt me. It is working. I am tempted.
It will be a weekend of art, of putting paper & paint on canvas. I have a one-night art show scheduled in June, and I am working on a series of paintings - shimmery paintings, paintings about stillness, about quiet, perhaps about whispering to trees. Perhaps about the whispers I get back from the trees. Perhaps I will include the rain.
let it rain all over me . . .