At my garden on the weekend, doing early fall harvesting, enjoying the cloudy scent of autumn green, I sat in a wooden chair, breathed in the sights and sounds of summer’s end and gentle breezes, and closed my eyes. Felt the inhale, the exhale, the few birds, the space between desire and obligation. An empty space sought often and found sometimes.
Remained that way. For some breaths.
In. Without effort. Out.
When I opened my eyes, an unbidden chortle burst out of me, part shock and part joy. For some soul had created small-scale dresses, works that speared me with pleasure, seared me with a strange and fiery tenderness.
The ways of art are mysterious. I know not the author of these whimsical garments. If I did, I would only thank her, or him, for bringing such delightful beauty, colour, and fabric to this unlikely sculpture of a trunk. For it is already dressed with a host of small dwellings for garden birds. Now the tree trunk is adorned with more beauty.
The autumn is fertile, after all.Share