Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
A partially shadowed path threads between a cluster of trees. Leaves stitch together a green canopy, filtering the warm summer sun into broken ribbons that fall across the trail like a quiet, living map. Each sunlit stripe invites forward steps; each pool of shade cools the skin and hushes the breath.
As you follow the shifting pattern of light and dark, the undergrowth softens— grasses thin—until the trees relent and the world opens. A meadow spills out, broad and gently rolling in an easy breeze. From a distance it looks ordinary, a pastoral slice of summer, but the sun’s path has led you exactly where it intended. Up close, the meadow’s hum adapts—bees lower their chorus, and the air carries the faint, sweet scent of crushed clover and something older, like page edges turned in a long-closed book.
This is the secret place: at once small and perfectly whole. It is held in shadow and sunlight, revealed only to the one who reads the sun’s quiet instructions. Sit, and you find a different kind of map—birdcall, the tilt of a fennel blossom, the postcard-blue of a beetle’s wing. Time thins here; the world beyond the meadow becomes a soft-edge memory.
15 5/8” x 15 5/8”
A partially shadowed path threads between a cluster of trees. Leaves stitch together a green canopy, filtering the warm summer sun into broken ribbons that fall across the trail like a quiet, living map. Each sunlit stripe invites forward steps; each pool of shade cools the skin and hushes the breath.
As you follow the shifting pattern of light and dark, the undergrowth softens— grasses thin—until the trees relent and the world opens. A meadow spills out, broad and gently rolling in an easy breeze. From a distance it looks ordinary, a pastoral slice of summer, but the sun’s path has led you exactly where it intended. Up close, the meadow’s hum adapts—bees lower their chorus, and the air carries the faint, sweet scent of crushed clover and something older, like page edges turned in a long-closed book.
This is the secret place: at once small and perfectly whole. It is held in shadow and sunlight, revealed only to the one who reads the sun’s quiet instructions. Sit, and you find a different kind of map—birdcall, the tilt of a fennel blossom, the postcard-blue of a beetle’s wing. Time thins here; the world beyond the meadow becomes a soft-edge memory.
15 5/8” x 15 5/8”