The Sound of Ink

"In my deepest January when grief  and life sits on my heart stoning joy I let my muse lead me to a smile" ~ S.C. January, dressed in the couture  of hand me downs made from  rusty leaves and autumn’s echo, dances her shadow down the sidewalk not caring if tomorrow the sun finds her naked. While humans moan of summer’s loss, January relishes the cold caress of winter.  There are no demands for shade  or knives pruning the fragile green of freckled stems nursing on her limbs. On the short days of light she is a  gallery for red cardinals, the sassy blue of the jay, and the obsidian sheen of a crow cawing its decree it owns the forest. Relishing she arrives first every new year January jokes with the wind, “Soon the Season of Resolutions will light its candle and humans will snuff it within a week.  ©Susie Clevenger 2025 What's Going On? ~ In Your Deepest January

Art should be served for breakfast, over easy or hard boiled, oatmeal or Danish, or a cup of black coffee poured into an astronaut cup demanding it needs more space. I love the mania of my insomnia is greeted with the weird on my walls, the odd on my shelves, and the bright splash of painted hearts dancing with shadows in my living room.  There is an anthology of quotes placed like easter eggs in frames for me to search when I can’t decide which mood to wear with my pajamas. An early riser wired with ADHD the squirrel cage in my brain attempts to conjure focus, but fails to leave crumbs for me to follow so the helter skelter  of my décor is the storm I find calm in. I enjoy my museum eclectic. It has bits of quiet and fever for attention. My curiosities, creations, and ink run cage free feeding on dust and fingerprints. Yes, art should be served for breakfast. I can sit amongst my gaggle of muses, spoon a teaspoon of cackles in my coffee, and ponder how many flowers it will ta...