My Aunt Sonya, is probably the first person that had me dabbling in art. I don't recall who bought me my first supplies, but there is an excellent chance it was her. She is truly an amazing artist.
Some years back, she traded in her paintbrush for beading equipment. She has made some of the most beautiful prayer beads you'll ever see. Her bead selection alone is art. I had been coveting a set of my own prayer beads, so last time she was in town she brought her equipment and taught me....
Her most recent trade has been for that of the pen. Sometime in the past year she joined a writers group in Fair Hope, AL (where she resides) and has since been pumping out poetry & short stories that have blown the family away. This one in particular has resinated with me & inspired my little carrier pigeon painting.....
Racing Homer of Lila's Heart
Carrier on the wind of her letters, secret sorceress of her undoing. Racing out the door with the letter. On second thought, Turn back, do not send that letter; take not advantage of this tired spirit.
The girl watches her carrier race out the doorway of her curtained heart, running on the wind with her message ... ' Come home sweet and longed for Friend. Where are you? Can you not hear me?'
The Rock Dove, his pale gray, black barred wings swim the sky, his purple blue head bent in his intent to get the mail out... his chest breast preens in the cold air, his neck stretched on the rack of intent shining in the cold dawn sun, gleaming yellow green feathers pressing the wind.
She calls him back. The carrier far gone, long from home, flies for hours to the heart of the friend she lost long ago. The birds orange iris, it's pale inner eye ring, darting, blinking,scanning.... it's antenna poised for landing .
The Homer drops the letter at the foot of the man. At first he looks up, wonderment on his brow. Curiosity. He himself a pilot. And then he sees the bird tremulous in it's circling, the Homer's iridescence catches the man's imagination. A letter for me?
Must be a wrong address, he muses. As he lifts the pale blue missal to his face, he breathes in the long ago fragrance of the lost woman. The girl he cast adrift onto the wave of his memory.
He opens the parchment to read: Heart. Did you forget? Lila
The pigeon home, lights on her gowned arm. She caresses his soft neck, strokes his winged dearness. You reached him?
The pigeon lived long years in the mosque of the woman's heart.
