On turning leaves

Almost bursting, flying through life in eager anticipation of the next meeting of hand to paper. Art has come back to me, and this time finds a well of happiness and eagerness to grasp all around me in conceptual beautification.

Crow woman, I’m calling myself from within, who have you now become? They linger along the roadside of our lives; ever present, unaffected Nature, testing out the frail limit of our reach. What are you trying to tell us all? That God is ever-present, even when we least expect it. That we have a job to do, if we only look for it. At the gate of a new beginning, and watching the progress, I see standing a crow. They watch without displeasure or happiness, just keenly fixing their awareness on the happening, only hopping away when threatened. Patient, piercing eyes; remembering the steps we take, recording silently the choices, as we disregard them - those who who are not afraid to live with us in the tangled nest we made. I’m now meeting my crow, and unstopping the cork on possibility; a little afraid, as any facing the turn of Fall. Listen to the trees, though: Forget fear in the laugh of beauty, and unleash, sing along with her a trembling scarlet praise. We have been given life! It has been housed in the leaves that now wither, and thereby endowed us another year’s growing. We release them, in a singular chorus of praise, and glitter every hillside in warmth, love, and rejoicing.

Life has so quickly become a barely escapable tremble of creativity. I could stay up all night, just giving. I can’t remember ever feeling this way; not back in art school, when pain seeped out from each twist of charcoal or blob of paint. Now it’s seems just time to let it out, and be happy.