I never know what will come from a walk. Usually, the impressions gather into paintings. Of course the next question is what will come from the paintings? Most of the time I can’t answer, especially after the painting leaves the studio. But occasionally, a painting is the beginning of an idea or story, in poetic form. Don’t ask. I really don’t know where that will lead.
Into the dark Stones, boulders, pebbles The homely, uncut cousins Of gems and geodes, Dragged or levered to The field's edge. Some stacked Some not quite. Most will slowly roll back To their original holes; Think less, sleep more.