October 21, 2026

Astonishing to watch, this kaleidoscope of butterflies, too small to be Monarchs, but equally as beautiful, dining and dancing with abandon on my garden flowers this month. Winged wonders, named Gulf Fritillaries, rapidly flap their orange and black wings showing off a dazzling display of silvery-white spots on their undersides, as they cavort among my common but colorful zinnias. When I tend to these crimson, fuschia, and gold blooms disturbing the butterflies, they do not scatter but just flutter about and find another blossom to perch on. They don’t seem to perceive me as threatening and I find their presence companionable.

I discovered that Gulf Fritillaries are abundant along the Georgia Coast from August through October. So while I see their appearance in my garden as extraordinary it is apparently quite ordinary in this habitat. They generally spend frost free winters in Peninsular Florida and areas of Mexico but will return to Georgia when winter passes. They, like so many other passing pleasures of fall, are only here for a short time. I’ve enjoyed watching them this season and plan to entice these transient visitors back into my garden next year by planting an abundance of zinnias. If my scheme is successful, they will enjoy another sweet, fleeting, floral banquet and I will savor another unforgettable visual feast.

September 10, 2026

When
life unsettled and
sapped my spirit,
I sought solace in nature
and labored outside.

Head bowed,
I filled
shiny, metal troughs
and weathered, clay pots
with dark, loamy soil,
sunk fingers in deeply,
smelled the good dirt,
carried concrete blocks
to raise smaller pots,
filled them with seeds,
watered, waited, watched,
and wondered,
what would grow.

In time,
with tending,
green shoots emerged,
my soul steadied,
and together
spirit and garden
strengthened and
faced the sun.

Not about a single event, the poem describes an ongoing relationship between me and my small garden. Work in the garden is not a “one and done”. It is a process of energy exchanges between me and the plants I try to grow that give back to me as much, or more, as what I give to them.

August 17, 2026

Plump pears ripen 
green to yellow, 
crowding together in a 
smooth, round, brown bowl 
cheerful and mellow 
on the black kitchen counter. 

A very uncomplicated domestic activity prompted the painting that goes with this poem. I placed three pears in a bowl and put them on the kitchen counter. Having no intention to set up a still life, but struck by the beauty of the pears, their asymmetry, soft curves, and earthy colors, I decided to paint them. Soon after I finished the painting, the pears were eaten but I didn’t need the pears to write the poem. It was inspired by the painting. The progression from pear, to painting, to poem, informs me, again, how one creative pursuit often leads to another, even when the original catalyst is simply a humble piece of fruit. 

July 15, 2026

I am using cuttings from my garden as one-of-a-kind stamps on paper to prepare unique foundations for paintings. The spontaneous organic marks made using this technique provide endless inspiration. The nature of the method is uncertain and creating with it is challenging even with planning.

The stamps are ephemeral, delicate and perishable, providing no opportunity for repeat printing with the same stamp. Sometimes natural pigment mixes with the ink when I press the plant onto my paper or a fragile bit of petal or leaf will cling and stay attached when I lift off the larger piece. It is as if the cutting is leaving some of itself behind, inserting its living essence even deeper into my art.

Using spent flowers from my garden as tools in my art is satisfying even if it is unpredictable. When my creative pursuits inform one another their interactions are based as much on chance as on intention. Chance controls my intention to create beauty leading to hesitancy in my process but also, more importantly, to lovely, distinctive results. So rather than trying to control chance, I’ll trust it and work with it as a partner. Because the risks involved with accepting chance, like the risks that come with coloring outside the lines, might just result in surprises that render the ordinary extraordinary.

June 10, 2026

Dahlias are divas and the center of attention in my small garden. Their size, color, and vigorous growth eclipse those properties in all other flowers growing with them. It is remarkable and makes me wonder how this happened when last year I was so unsuccessful cultivating dahlias.

Last year the dahlias I planted all died untimely deaths in the relentless Southern heat. This year’s heat hasn’t changed but my process has. Last year’s dahlias were already growing in pots and had colorful flowers and leaves when I purchased them. This year I planted bare, brown, cigar-look-alike dahlia tubers. I am also continuing to learn how to garden, with some success, on a semi tropical southern island. My learning curve includes how to nurture the growth of tender perennials like dahlias. So either of these, both of these, none of these reasons, or maybe something else, could be where my success is rooted. I can’t be sure but the lack of certainty is part of the appeal gardening holds for me.

I’ve read that in my growing zone dahlias may be treated like true perennials: left in the ground during their dormant season as long as they are covered with a layer of mulch. That seems easy enough. So, continuing on my learning curve, I’ll overwinter my dahlia tubers in the ground, bedding them down with a few additional tweaks to bolster the health of the resting plants. Then I’ll wait to see if my dahlias return refreshed and once again beautiful. Time will tell. For now, I’ll sit back, watch the floral show, and just enjoy this moment, very aware it is fleeting and will pass soon enough.

April 27, 2026

Unbolt the lock and
open the door,
step into the familiar
safe haven
where life thrives
and harm is left outside.
Close the door,
exhale,
you are home.

Why this poem? I’ve had reason to take a few short trips recently and was reminded how, no matter the reason for a trip, I start out anticipating its conclusion. Coming home is always the best part of any trip for me because I know I am coming back to the place where I am my truest self and where my real life happens.

March 26, 2026

Holding a book in my hands feels good. I enjoy the weight of a book and touching pages bound inside a front and a back cover. Worlds evolve within those covers. Books are collectible artifacts whose physical characteristics inform one of another story beyond the story told within the book. It is a story about the intellectual curiosity and aspirations of the person inclined to garner the collection.

In my home, on shelves and tables, you’ll find cookbooks, design and other lifestyle books, novels, memoirs, books of poetry, books about gardening, surfing, collecting, creating, writing and more. On many occasions, this variety has sparked conversations and fostered previously unrealized connections even with family. A book collection invites the inquisitive among us to start a dialogue. To coin a phrase: Book collections encourage connections.

Rather than hoard books, I regularly cull books from my assortment and send those selections into the “book universe” for other readers to enjoy. It is very satisfying to know a worthy but no longer wanted book will provide pleasure and inspiration to another owner. Also satisfying is the knowledge that I’ve made space in my collection which I will get to refill. Opportunity and possibility exist in that space because there are always new titles to be discovered and chosen, two tasks I gladly do at every opportunity with immeasurable pleasure.

February 11, 2026

It’s a cold, windy, gray January afternoon. I’m walking my dog on the bluff above East Beach near the 16th beach access path. Below me, on the sand, are a boy and a man arranging fishing gear. Their presence stirs inspiration and I capture this moment in a photograph; save it on my iPhone for later use in my creative work. Days later in my studio I make a print of the photo and use my artistic license to recreate the scene in a painting and a poem. Simple enough if I stop there; but not so simple when observation prompts questions that can’t be answered.

Red Sneakers

Standing near the man
the young boy’s blond curls
ruffle in the icy winter wind that
sprays steely-blue ocean water
over craggy dark rocks
and wobbles the fishing rod
standing in its sand spike.
Seated near the boy
the grown man’s hat hugs his head,
he bends over his task, prepping bait.

Does the man sense
the boy’s watchful closeness?
Does he notice
the boy’s small, pale hands
relaxed at his sides or
how his red sneakers
warm and brighten the dull cold
of this January afternoon?

I’ll never know,
although
my sense of what I see
might be
all that matters.

January 5, 2026

There,
in the days between
Christmas Day and
New Year’s Day,
savoring quiet,
anticipating closure,
a slow, deliberate pace
moves me through each day
as sun and moon
rise, set,
days disappear,
six becomes five becomes four
until no more,
all done.

There,
back at one,
on the first of another year
around the sun,
I ask myself,
“Now, what will come”.

December 15, 2025

so much depends on
remembering
a handheld red transistor radio
given with love,
from brother to sister,
one Christmas
long ago.  

so much depends on
remembering 
a handheld red transistor radio
given with love, simply,
selflessly,
one meager Christmas
long ago.  

so much depends on
remembering 
a handheld red transistor
radio, given with love, playing
still
in heart and mind
this Christmas,
as it did
one distant Christmas
long ago.  

so much depends on
remembering
a handheld red transistor radio,
given with love,
when we were young,
and unaware of what would come,
years after we shared
that special Christmas so very, 
very, long ago.