smiling in south carolina

night train; a benjamin moore paint color. Also known as Smoky Mountain AC-18. A velvety gray blue made enticing with its smoky undertones and complex, cultivated colour. A beautifully deep hue that is refined and cosmopolitan. One day I took a good hard look at my front door and decided that it was time to change the color. This door, like the house itself, is a good solid door. It is made of heavy wood with copper seals and brass fittings, and the exterior facing side had been the color of a cheap merlot when I arrived on the scene and purchased the house in 2013, no doubt the victim of the late century Tuscan design trend. this color was definitely a holdover from circa 1995. In addition, the kitchen featured a confederate red (BM's name, not mine) walls, a glass drop-and bead bedazzled brass chandelier, and an over-the-top, hand-painted mediterranean vista mural. The door ? She was ready. I was ready. It was decided. But first the shutters......sometimes you have to go...

New Moon Diamond The light of the new moon revealed the diamond in the sidewalk I stopped and was transfixed by its beauty I pondered whether to pick it up but was overcome by the aura of the glow There it is waiting for me Winking What should I do with it Maybe it’s just winking at me I will I will let it wink the shine tells me what it knows It radiates New Moon love Despite too many trees I can see it’s hiding Where is my sparkle So, I’m back inside quiet nights and earth turning moments to see light lit by the dark moon My love and the new moon craves returning back to me.

the late summer rest, do you feel it, too? a small peace after days of broiling heat, outdoor plants crispy from the sun, birds and squirrels hibernating from the intensity of June July August days. and now a respite, an almost unnoticeable tinkling pause in the rush to bloom and expand, in the sling of summer's ease before her eventual fade into autumn.  it feels too ethereal, too beautiful, shameful to draw out with words, but there is an unmistakable finger on the lips.  the ball caught in mid-air before its descent. a pendulum at its peak before the return. that one moment. that one. that one. that one. this is time best described by memory as poignant longing. years ago when i, belly swollen and tight, loose sundress, August in Portland, hung tiny tie-dyed onesies on the line to dry in anticipation of my baby girl, Alma. later, i ingested trillium and castor oil, walking endless trips, rocking my baby down. but no baby. i watched the sun bend back ov...