Her Garden

Her world is an explosion of colour.
Flowers paint her pumpkin walls,
Fuschias dance in her back garden
and exotic roses watch over the plants that play to her music that breezes from her soul.

She is their sun
and their shade-
their very earth
and their rain.

Her children are loved
and her beauty adorned
with the essence of God.

Her Home

So warm.
Large wooden windows give light to the rooms.
To be there is to be in history:
faded photos, art, collectibles, aged mirrors,
take me on journeys to old souls and to myself.

The walls that hold them are boldly coloured and yet so comfortable. Every corner is a suprise placed with care.
The butch duck on the grandfather clock has laid an egg and curiously glares at the fireplace in the opposite corner.
I will always remember her fireplace.

Her bed is dressed with a red and gold silk oriental throw and large pillows resting on the headrest.
In the corner a tree laden with colourful handbags and hats for all occasions.
She has a mirror on an antique dresser for company
decorated with rings and makeup and jewelry
and many many interesting things.
The basket holds scarves and gloves and shoes,
and her sheets hold the moment i was born anew.

Her Art

She is her art.
Full of suprise,
eclectic,
eccentric,
bright.

Her home,
her garden,
her songs,
her interests,
her way.

She smiles poetry and wears classical movies.
She dances flowers and daggers
and speaks mystery and passion.

So soft and perplexed-
a roller coaster of colourful tastes
and memorable aromas.

To meet her is a pilgrimage,
to lose her is to lose an eye.