how it moves

from my mother
it begins,



to Fulton Street Gallery
in a town called Troy



where the Celestial Child



rooted by the ancestors



of the Tree of Miracles



sustains me

how it all begins

morning breaks
walking with Bea





if it weren't for her
i would only see half
of what i do,
she is my eyes





my mother was an egg artist

i was surrounded in fantasy
like chicks steering boats
in trees





how it begins
the drive to
create rises
up








from a trickle
we thrust to the
sea







spring bursts

with no thought