A wool and silk scarf I made, rolled up in a bundle on an oak limb. Forgotten through the snow and the subsequent thaw.
Impressions left by plum leaves, and rose leaves, and eucalyptus sent to me by Heather.
Left so long that the wool has started to decay and pull away from the silk.
Gorgeous, all the same, to me. India Flint, I am not, but each of these faint impressions gives me a little flutter of happiness.
A pile of stones was treated in kind, left in the snow wrapped in leaves. They too house vague images of autumn.
The combination is a quiet kind of beauty. One that speaks to me strongly right now. Mine to keep.
