The teeming generations of man have made, and broken, many connections with the natural world. Tidal streams are rivers within oceans and passages in time. The winds of fortune make weathervanes of us all. In a cold grey season light is a precious commodity.
Color is the measure of value.
Riches are bestowed by sunlight borne on scarlet wings. In trees where money does not grow, fortune awaits arrayed in feathers Getting To Spring March flies on paper wings, twine and slender sticks, aloft on dreams of green vistas as winter spirals down. Running into the wind's harsh face with taut string in hand, your heart soars into the bright and timeless blue sky. The bare limbs lay in wait, a snare for airborne hopes, passing the time until the month becomes gentled in April's soft baptism. The sails, all curves And quiet effectiveness, Bend to their work With silent grace.