reflection

'Pathway'  29x32"  oil pastel;  Kathleen Faulkner

Robert passed in September, 2001.  It was a sad winter that year.  

I've always missed him most though, in April.   

April Has Turned Cold

April has turned cold.

The evening light fades through the clouds.

A string of geese calls me out

to sing a farewell, and

I wish them luck as they go from Ish River,

away out over the ocean,

long, long sweeps of rippling wings

bound for Siberia.

Their wild song they take with them, 

and leave some behind.

They leave enough so

I don't have to leave home any more.

Robert Sund

poem from SHACK MEDICINE

history

'Passage' oil pastel, charcoal,  28x33"   Kathleen Faulkner

The river glides in silence.

The night is deep, like a

  loving mother.

A silence goes back and forth

  through the marsh.

The same silence that was here

in my shack waiting for me.

  It was always here.

I was gone so long, now

the silence is so much deeper, and

  I sink down into it.

The sadness I met in the world 

  falls away from me.

One by one my dreams return.

Robert Sund  from 'Shack Medicine'

"April has Turned Cold"

"Early Morning: Cranberry Lake" 17x17" oil pastel, Kathleen Faulkner

There was a tragedy in my little town this week.  It was very large and very sad and it has put a bit of a damper on things.  

It seems to be a volatile time around here in general, lately.   Cranky people, crazy weather, accidents and a little something off in the air.

When things get a bit overwhelming, I generally go somewhere.  A good place for me is Deception Pass.  It's best, in my view, in the early morning or early evening, less people depending on the season.

Hearing the surf while walking among the trees is incredibly soothing and the best part is that it is just minutes from my home.  I always come away with a renewed sense of wonder.

April has Turned Cold

April has turned cold.

                                 The evening light fades through the clouds.

             A string of geese calls me out

             to sing a farewell, and

                                I wish them luck as they go from Ish River

       away out over the ocean,

                    long long sweeps of rippling wings

       bound for Siberia.

                        Their wild song they take with them,

               and leave some behind.

 They leave enough so

                          I don't have to leave home any more.  

 Robert Sund

                                                                         from "Shack Medicine"