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Where color speaks what words cannot.
A gallery of breath, brush, and becoming.
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❦ With Gratitude
To the artists whose colors, lines, and voices lit the path back to my own brush—thank you.
Your tutorials, your courage to share, and your quiet encouragement have shaped this space more than you know.
Special thanks to:
Paintlane, Lois & Morgaine Davidson, Karen Rice, MoonMoon, Kirsty Partridge, Liesl
…and to the many others whose names I may not recall, but whose inspiration lingers in every stroke.
This gallery is not just mine—it’s a reflection of all of you.
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The Shore
The waves of my summer still whisper and sway,
while the shore sings in gold, lost deep in thought.
And in wings of a gray-flying flock far away,
dreams carry me where white hopes are caught.
Was it me, weaving longing in delicate thread,
braiding gold through the net of desire—
gleaming strands of summer once quietly spread
in the scent of a blossom set softly on fire?
Now the days forgetful of sea gently fade,
and my hidden sorrow begins to sing—
a shadow drifts where, alone and afraid,
it burned in silence, remembering spring.
And is there meaning in chasing the sky,
in kissing the dusk of a love grown old?
Or do you ask if it’s time to deny
the longing that never does what it’s told?
It speaks—not loud, but under the weight
of dust-covered memories dim and true—
a ravine in the heart it helps create,
filling it gently… with pardon, too.
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Dear Walnut Tree,
Thank you.
For the shade that cools the earth beneath your branches…
For the way you cradle birds in the quiet safety of your limbs…
For standing through storms and sun and silence.
I see you.
Though others may not understand your beauty or your purpose, you matter—to the sky, to the soil, to me. You remind me that not everything wild must be tamed. That not everything old should be erased.
Please stay strong. Stay brave. Hold on.
Your presence is love itself—deep-rooted and quietly magnificent. I think of you often, and I send hugs in the wind, rustling through your leaves.
With gratitude and care,
Nina 🌿
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The past is fiercely orange,
fluent in the language of the sunset.
The promises are vaguely gray
dumped in the expectations of tomorrow.
Not knowing to hope
or just to reflect
the unknown
sprouting in my soul…