The sun spills her pink light over the mountains, gently waking me.
I yawn and carry the first black chrysalis outside to freedom. But she waits and waits, emerging in the afternoon to dry her wings. Just at the moment, watching a life cycle seems more important than ever. The ancient cycle of birth and death whispers that life goes on.
I begin a new collagraph of massive proportions. So many letters in my poem, I'm running out of space. But I am joyful because I seem to have found a new medium that really suits me. This has only happened twice before in my life. I treasure this feeling.
In the letterbox I find my first collage print. A little song of autumn and of me.
