Saturday, November 27, 2021

Wishes

Wishes ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2021
Original artwork at Gallery 322 



      This morning, predawn; a hobbled   greybeard walks the dew path toward the fox hollow road; oakwood smoke in the air below the last half moon of winter; the slightest hint of stars swirling beyond the eastern tree tops, above the winding valley branch.  Wrens and redbirds staccato in the maples before the crows take flight. All the players are in their proper place for the shooting star, brighter than the moon, from zenith to the valley in a second; a moment only, but in that flash, a greybeard becomes a boy once again, a child of wonder once again, wishing on a star.

 

    He wishes for a walk upon a dew path toward the fox hollow road.


                                     ~Michael Douglas Jones


                                    Parcel №4





 

Thursday, November 18, 2021

Forevernow

 

Forevernow ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2021
Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322 




    On the Bethesda Church road, as the  storm moves east, beneath the cushion of cloud veiled dawn, a heron angel glides west above the rain wet road that ribbons down the valley of cut corn, to lightly land at the edge of Bennett Creek where cow and calf, Madonna and Child, drink fresh rainwater, and I stand in that still, quiet congregation of thanks giving.


                      

Saturday, November 13, 2021

Seamstress


Seamstress ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2021

Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322 



   The long, lacy white trim on the butterfly bush is fading; its crazy quilt of Monarchs and Painted Ladies has started to unravel.  The hummingbird hurries between the persistent petals, like some frantic seamstress trying to sew it back together; I might miss her most. 



Thursday, November 11, 2021

Leaving Light

Leaving Light ~ L'assemblage by Michael Douglas Jones  ©2021
Original artwork SOLD at Gallery 322 




Life is heavy loaded on my shoulder in the long shadows of late November; my cottage is cold, and quiet in candlelight, but out beyond the gate, our ancient mother calls me to the dance of dayend.  Just before the sun sets behind the line of tall pines, I, in my winter wool, walk out into the silence, to stand still on my step, as the wood wind begins.

 

Curled, crisp oak leaves, like field mice, skitter and click across the cobblestones, beneath leafless locust branches that sway in hypnotic joy, as the senior silver maple joins the whispering rhythm. A kettle of vultures’ allemande left, above the east valley branch, seems like silhouettes of graceful angels in the air. Beyond their flight, clouds circle from the north in silence surrounding, miming the sun’s last rhyme. The waxing moon, the soloist on this stage, rises slowly, softly, higher into the vault of heaven.

 

Beneath the woodwind’s whisper, I join the dance as the circle's still center, while the unseen symphony, the ancient mother, whirls around me. I am the still, steady beat of breathing in, breathing out. The still dancing.

 

A flutter of dark-eyed juncos trill, and scratch at the pine needle floor, searching, in this day's leaving light, for the last sunflower seeds of the season; the dance slowing into winter rest, listening close, attuned to the still breathing in, and breathing out. Still.