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I am UmberDove.

And by that, I mean an artist.  One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.

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Under the Freeze

UmberDove



Under the Freeze [there is green]
(sterling silver, blue chalcedony and prehnite)
In the dead of winter, on the days my lips grow numb and my fingertips bright, I listen hard for green.  For growth.  For the churning of cellular multiplication, for the hum of photosynthesis, for the rhythm of sleep, for the good work of life turning within the solar system of pods and twigs and trunks, for the beating heart of it all.  
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