a biting frost which clings a inky slick melts away, falling slowly to what would be peril if not for mutation, but a rose never looks down, time slows not for her: she blooms, she grows, she wilts, and then she is dead, so she sighs a hoary steamy spice and shakes a frantic iridescence, vines twist and thorns sink in and she begins to climb, strangling the thistle, crushing weed, she climbs, undulating petals flow and stretch toward that fever, Sol, ardent growth will never stop ’til she is white light blinded one with everything.
My art, my heart, my everything.
Ego denique opportunus muse.
Meus pectus pectoris est de Sol.
Watercolor on Arches
Valerie Herron 2011