Sunday

This Sunday is so pretty it’s making all the other Sundays jealous.

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Happy last Sunday of March 2016!

floral installation
Flower Installation by Rebecca Louise Law

On a day like today
Angels dance, not on pin heads,
But rather on flower pistils.

Flowers fall, streaking the cathedral-like vastness of Rebecca Louise Law’s suspended floral instalation and I am struck by the beauty of falling itself embodied in these meteors of color and the way that falling mimics flight.

The roses and gardenias, phlox and dandelions, the named flowers and blooms unknown, all suggest to me in their myriad petals streaking against the sky of the exhibit, rain.

Rain at first but then my perception shifts and raindrops become planets tumbling through space. They fall gracefully in their heavenly art installation exhibit, weave a curtain of beauty through which I can see the suggestion of other, even more beautiful, things. — Annette Marie Smith

See more of Rebecca Louise Law’s work here.

Even the Death Sea

boat
Conceptual Photography by Dariusz Klimczak

We are all, all of us souls, boats. We find ports that call to us. We anchor. We dock. But the sea is always there and the sea is always calling. It is inevitable that we will unfurl our sails, like wings, and take to the tides again. Come Scylla and Charybdis, come Kraken, come Selkie and Siren, and all unplumbed depths. Even the Death Sea is not the last sea. — Eller Oarsson of Landsend from the Night Fairytale Series by Annette Marie Smith

Sunday Things: Talaya

There are many hard hearts, many hearts of stone in this world.
She pulls them up by their mountain roots and carries them,
like a load of heart heavy laundry, to the river.
She uses the soothing properties of water
and in that way she softens the stones.
Her hair is made up of every color in every conceivable
(and inconceivable) spectrum
and as she launders those hard hearts she cries
shining, shimmering, multi-colored pearls of tears.
She polishes the stony hearts to brilliance with her tears
and as she does so her hair (each time she does this)
is drained of all color. It swirls to her feet
like a silver cape and she smiles through her tears.
Her smiles are like kisses that melt in the rain,
fleeting but oh so beautiful.
As she disappears her hair flames
with legion color once more. —  Annette Marie Smith

 

Sunday Things: Morning Rain Storm

My bed, an island of Eden
a silk tent raised
a downy castle.
The storm of the world shaking
all around us
the sky arching like a rusted metal sheet
while the torrential rain rumbles
your name
trembling its syllables into my marrow.
Your arms are a portculis of protection.
Your stones were each floated into place By Merlin himself.
I take it as a compliment when you call me Nimue
say I ride the storm like it is my own broom
accuse me of being your undoing.
But I have come
not to imprison you
in tree, in cave, in arrested state,
my love, I have come
to set you free.
— Sunday Morning Rainstorm, Annette Marie Smith