She's An Artist Ring opal the battered easel

the battered easel

frangipani and bowls of oranges everywhere

the soft pencil lines are sightly smudged

the corner of the pier

guests drawn inevitably towards the water

She's An Artist Ring opal the battered easelThe day smells like snow, the soft roll of cloud quieting the birds, wood fire smoke in the air filling you with anticipation. The studio feels like a hothouse, ferns and anthuriums everywhere, elephant ears and fiddle fig trees snug among pots of paint, the battered easel. Your grandmothers prisms on the windowsill, a geodesic dome in pastels. Leonard Cohen on the record player, crooning to the bowl of tropical fish, their scales a symphony of color,