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Absorbed in the rhythm of the music.
The eagle wings spread wide — in a blue sky, it glides.
Mysticism: in the picture hanging on the wall of the old house
The Archangel, Michael unfolds his wings, lifts his hands and drives his spear into the heart of the dark angel, piercing his dark blue skin — the sublime passion, eyes staring at the divine: the Dulia.
Redemption and absolution from his coil, his bind this sacrifice.
In the intense heat, the mind summons the autumnal foliage of Vermont.
Climbing the mountain on bare hands and knees to survey the landscape spread before me.
I see the impressionist’s mind laid bare: the light from the foliage — is too much for my mind to assimilate.
A kaleidoscope of colours, a carousel of light, dance before me,
In view is Miro’s imagination: a carnival, a spectacle so grand.
I hear an accordion,
And see the colours at play.
