Door are also hinges

 into time.  Into light.  Perhaps, into insight.  In these properties doors share a kinship to windows.  

Just ask

the dream will get you to this exact spot.  Probably best, if you bring your own lunch.  And some water.

Where do I start?

At the angle of light seeping through the closed door.   

The minimal knows my nickname

and my passion for red shoes.

Feathers involved

The migration yet to be determined.  Yet to be undertaken.  There is beauty in waiting.  Remember, waiting is a door about to open.  About to close.   

Ethereal

It might be useful to remember the ethereal is tactile, tangible, resolute and a friend of light.   

Sometimes to see

is to feel.  To feel the wet, the cold, the inviting while roasting a chicken with potatoes & herbs. Remember, both the cold & the hot are both juicy -- in different ways, of course.  Just ask, dear Eleanor.  

The first gardenia bloom

for this plant.  Feels like time's baptism.  I'm sure you can smell the bloom's perfume no matter on what parcel of land you stand.  Today, I "weeded" the kitchen herbs and my hands so fragrant.  Today, I'll cook only food of beguiling perfume and walk softly on purple shoes. 

Sometimes the narrative

is transitory.  And always the content up the the viewer.  Now, consider the side of house as canvas to whatever landscape time decides to paint.  

What I choose

 to focus upon matters.  

And if I told you

this was the field of oak trees across the street from you seen through raven's eyes, would you believe me? Or would you say, "No, I think this is a memory of the seashore and my first bathing suit which was green with white trim."  Memory is never singular especially when it comes to narratives.
 

Some landscapes

 are liquid in nature.  Others, encaustic paintings.  And all, in some form, narratives.