What spirit painted this?The edges chewed, so imperfect.Yet, could anything be more perfect?The colors.
I carried a daisy bouquet on my wedding day.An orchid girl, I was not.The daisies were cousins of the ones growing wild in the valley near the West Kill, that stream I so loved in New York."He loves me, he loves me not."Daisy chains and a simple girl.
Growing up, I strove to be perfect, to not rock the already chaotic boat that we four sailed on.I still think there is some of that but today a friend came and the house was in a bit of disarry and that was O.K.My leaves have been chewed on.
Georgia O'Keefe, an artist whose mind took in the yellow hickory leaves with the daisy, couldn't say what she saw in any other way but with her hands.In the still desert air that called her West to New Mexico;in its bare simplicity, she bloomed with the hickory.
"This was a land of vast spaces and long silences, a desert land of red bluffs and brilliant flowering cactus.The hot sun poured down .This land belonged to the very old Gods.They came on summer evenings, unseen, to rest their eyes on the milky opal and smoky blue of the desert.For this was a land of enchantment where Gods walked in the cool of the evening." Marian Russell, "Along the Santa Fe Trail."
I think someday, I'll hitch my paint horse to the front of a canvas wagon and plod along the old Santa Fre trail.I'll don some silver earrings and a buckskin skirt and settle among the rocks warmed by the setting sun.
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