Flowers 8 Small

Now poppies. The first kiss of bucolic spring has come leaving garlands and wreaths strewn about the meadow.

Flowers 7 Small

My foray into the deep grass has left me slack jawed and altered. I have produced “peaces” verging upon abstraction.

Flowers 9 Small

Tell me, “How does one paint the dancing of petals in the wind? The recoil of petals toward the whole? How does one paint the gossamer light pouring through?

Flowers 11 Small

It seems the joy is not in the achieving but in the trying.

 

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