This Sunday is so pretty it’s making all the other Sundays jealous.
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.
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
Image via Tumblr(dot)com
❤ Today is a sacred day for me. In addition to celebrating it, I will be giving thanks for it all day. Happy Extra Hour Of Sleep Day (aka The Turning Back of The Clocks Day)! ❤
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
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
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
The sunlight comes in bunches today
like flowers wrapped up in the brightest bouquets
and carried by the handsome hands of shade.
There are blossoms everywhere
vivid and dazzling
against the quiet shadows
against the patient shade .
— Annette Marie Smith
(Poem #5 National Poetry Month)
I slammed the tip of my right middle finger in the pinching hinge of a mailbox door. The mailbox was in the second suite of a wall of mailboxes that open out to reveal cubby holes for each mailbox front. The door comprised of many mailbox fronts required that I lift it and push it forcefully closed before I could lock it.
I sliced the tip of my finger and into the nail bed with the metal edge of the closing door’s hinge. I am happy to report no broken bones AND I even still have my finger tip! But it hurt like the dickens, looked horror-movie scary and necessitated a visit to the doctor. The doctor had x-rays taken and instructed me to take 3 days off work to recuperate the ravaged end of my finger.
She also, Dr. Susan Lord Mark (I like her name 🙂 ), insisted I have a
tetanus shot and blasphemed against my beloved Neosporin (I swear by that stuff!) calling it of “questionable utility”. I told her I liked her sass and that I would not forget her wording as I am a writer and her neatly worded slur against my Neosporin appealed to me. 😉
But this post is not really about the injury I took to my finger or the delight I find in everyday encounters with individuals who word things appealingly.
This post is about my hands.
We all have favorite features — the ones about ourselves that please us aesthetically. I do and you do too. Maybe its your crooked smile, your eyes that seem to carry their own light and beam it out into the world, the exact shade of your hair (a mix of honey and sunshine), or the kink of it and its black beauty, the way it undulates like dark waves crashing against the shore of your neck, the arch of your feet, the freckles sprinkled like cinnamon over the toast of your body or your nose that is big and you like it that way.
We all do and we also have the not-so-favorite features. My hands are that under-appreciated and aesthetically-looked-askance-at feature for me. I’ve never loved the look of them. I’ve never thought they were pretty, much less beautiful.
So imagine my shock in seeing an elegance un-looked for, a beauty unexpected in the bones of my hand. I was so enchanted with the way my bones looked in the x-rays that I asked the technician to print me out a copy — which she could not do. She could, however, burn it to a disc!
This post is also about a way of seeing things.
I finally think my hands are beautiful — in their bones. My bones spoke to me of hidden things and underlying beauty and made me wish I could always see so clearly — beneath the surface and to the bone.
late, late, late (I mean really late) tonight. Because the day beckons to me.