M A R Y' S m e s A

Her hour was dusk: the minutes after the sun goes down, when the sky turns a blue you can't name and the grasses hold their light a little longer.

We make a few OAK pieces each year.
When they're gone, they're gone -onto their new homes, onto the next journey.

he goes straight up over the open ground,
with his wings whistling

Then
he
falls.

Small, plain, and made from the offcuts

M A R Y' S m e s A

every droplet is falling
into rising air.

they neither sow nor reap, neither do they gather into barns

e x p e c t m i r a c l e s

Glyptemys insculpta

M A R Y' S m e s A

at the crossroads

how beautiful you are

greater is He that is in me than he that is in the world