Page 45 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. Iv #8

both hands. But then I’m out on the sidewalk, feeling life beginning to open up. I’m walking east toward Mt. Tabor, a long dormant volcano. This seems the best path for understanding why I’ve sunk so low and the reason I’m starting to come back. Perhaps because I know the painters are almost done, I’m feeling especially hopeful. It’s as if I’d sunk, tight like a coiled spring, and now that I’ve let a bit of the weight go, I have sprung up higher than where I’d been to start.
slap a collection of bright colors on his house – purple here and yellow there, chartreuse on the front steps and lavender along the window trim. Then everyone followed. The colorful houses are matched by gardens that spill onto the sidewalks and even into the street. Huge trees of all sorts, many blooming in the spring, tower above.
Sarton would have loved this neighborhood. The old wood-sided houses – bungalows, four- squares and Queen Annes – are set close to- gether. Nearly all of them face the street behind wide, welcoming porches. I don’t know how it began, but some daring soul decided one day to
If Sarton were walking with me, she could have reeled off the names of all the plants and flowers. I only know the showy ones – the dahlias and daf- fodils, sunflowers and ice poppies, bearded iris, and of course, the roses. It doesn’t matter that I can’t say their names. The flowers make me glad regardless.
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Beneath No. 4
acrylic/mixed media on panel 14” x 14”
by Teresa Stanley