A quiet hymn to the ordinary sacred – A mother’s gaze, tender and aching, traces the fleeting shapes of her family— the way her husband’s shoulders catch the light differently at forty. The way a child’s limb stretch toward an unwritten future. Fragile as breath, hold what time cannot: the soft collapse of a child’s cheek against a shoulder, the quiet erosion of a shared glance, the slow unraveling. Light lingers where it will soon leave. Love, here, is both presence and elegy—an archive of vanishing.

morning behind the temporary curtain

different games under the same tree

eldest and youngest with horsetail

lilac blossom nectar

columbine seed heads

spring light on his back

first ice of the winter

projection of birds on the bedroom wall

long sleeves and long shadow

when he was six and hated haircuts