The Luniferous Gazette #30: What I Take from Niagara Falls . . .

And Leave in the Vortex.

~*~ 

“Everything flows, nothing stands still.” 
― Heraclitus  

When my family member M invited me on a road trip last fall, I was excited as I’m easily lost and would never venture on such a voyage alone. Thanks to her superior navigation skills, I found myself visiting Niagara Falls for the first time ever in my life. I was born on the East Coast and spent many years there, but sometimes it takes moving far away to realize what you missed. 

From afar, the falls are quite obviously magical, an indisputable grand marvel of nature…

 

 

So much so, at night, our species gather along the shores and throw gigantic, scheduled sparkle stars into the air . . .

 

 

But do you dare to move your feet a little closer into the zone of relentless back spray from Niagara Falls, puny human? You will shiver against glistening-wet iron railings just to catch a wider glimpse of its veiled beauty lit up against evening skies . . .

 

 

You’ll battle chattering teeth because you don’t want to miss the evening parade of gem box colors—from pearly white to ruby red, shimmering gold, sapphire blue, aquamarine and alluring auras of emerald green . . .

 

 

Follow me for a stroll inside the tunnels under Niagara Falls where wishes are tossed freely into the waters, nameless and bright as full moons and spilled suns. Go on and make a wish, but I’ll never tell you mine—some secrets are meant only for the clarity of crystal-clear currents. 

 

Emerge from the tunnels only to blink in startled awe as the roar of the falls suddenly kisses your skin— 

 

Or, for a different panorama, ascend the Skylon Tower and peer down at the ferries bobbing like tiny toy ships in the fierce currents of the falls . . .   

 

 

Now, do you dare to take a ferry yourself? Feel your own smallness down to the deepest cell in your bones? For up close, the falls are utterly ferocious and will swallow all your senses whole!

 

 

I must confess that the silver thunder of the falls mesmerized me, drowning out my noisy consciousness. And I was grateful for that. The wind coming off the falls blew sideways and pummeled my ears, almost driving through my skull like an invisible spear. Still, I pressed eagerly against the ferry’s railing—

 

 

*Photo by M. Special thanks for letting me borrow your RainSisters jacket, which held up admirably against the falls and was far more fashionable than my flimsy plastic poncho. 

 

I wanted all of it, the sheer humbling and raw wonder shaking my skeleton and nerve bundles to the last quark. I didn’t feel real, more like a flickering dream wavering in and out of existence in a liquid holodeck. The sound and the spray soaked into my dehydrated decades and imprinted me with nature’s sternest reminder—

Nothing stays still. Everything flows through, then away . . .  

Sometimes, though, it doesn’t feel that way. There are days, months, years even, when our life tangles up into impossible knots. Or maybe vortexes. 

Until last year, I didn’t know that just a few miles from the legendary falls, the Niagara Whirlpool swirls with deadly counterclockwise lethality. Gazing down upon the vicious white currents from the high safety of a viewing platform, I could feel the bone-deep shiver traveling through my DNA:

Not safe. 

Yet curious thrill-seekers can ride an antique cable car over the whirlpool, and stare straight down into its voracious maw . . . 

Some have even tried to traverse the whirlpool as far back as the ill-fated swim of the intrepid Captain Matthew Webb in 1883. The whirlpool is currently off-limits to people because of the extreme danger posed by its snarling currents, although that hasn’t always stopped foolhardy attempts. 

The crushing power of both the falls and the whirlpool remind me that sometimes, you will never be as strong as what breaks you in life. No human is immune to heartbreak, health problems, or catastrophe. You are changed, and maybe, you won’t even mend the same way again. But you will survive. And there is still beauty beyond the vortex, and wide blue skies, and those who will pull you up on your feet when you slip and fall. So when the vortex calls your name, don’t linger and listen too long. 

Nothing stays still. Everything flows through, then away . . .  

Sources:

Hudson, Jack (20 August 2025). “‘Nothing Great is Easy’: The Story of Captain Matthew Webb.” Swimtrek.com. 
<https://www.swimtrek.com/blog/nothing-great-is-easy-the-story-of-captain-matthew-webb>

“Whirlpool Aero Car.” Niagara Parks.com. 

<https://www.niagaraparks.com/visit/attractions/whirlpool-aero-car>

 

  ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #29: My Last Thrift Find of 2025 and My First Wish for 2026

 For the Age of Dreamers

* 

So I meant to ink something about waterfalls and vortexes for my final post of 2025, but a sudden bout of severe indigestion and insomnia has reminded me yet again of the firm boundaries of my mortal intelligence.  

Instead, I want to share my last thrift score of 2025! The gleam of this 12-karat gold-filled vintage Anson pen was the first thing that caught my eye when I entered my favorite thrift store four days after Christmas. 

The pen came with an ink cartridge, but unfortunately, it seems to have dried up (or maybe it was used up by its previous owner?). Worse, the Anson company apparently went bankrupt in 1983, and many of these exquisite writer’s implements were discontinued by the company that bought them. My $12.99 score might prove more expensive to restore to working order, assuming I can even find the right type of ink cartridge. 

The box is a bit stained and beat up, and I can’t help wondering who owned the little golden treasure inside it before me. Did they ever use the pen, or was it merely a gilded desk ornament? Were they overjoyed when they first received it in all its shiny newness and potential to ink their dreams into paper-thin reality? I have so many unanswerable questions . . . .

I’ll end with a poem I wrote in 2024 that reminds me of this golden pen, which might as well be a glorified wand for wishes now. As humans, we keep tracing new dreams in our heart even when the old ones evaporate. And if that is all we can accomplish sometimes, that’s okay. And while I keep my tears and most of my cat pictures to myself these days, I will confess that I’d be lying if I claimed that 2025 was a magically profound journey to healing and inner happiness. 2025 has been a tough year for many humans across our micro-plasticized planet. But if I can light a single wish for 2026, it’s that we aren’t afraid to keep tracing dreams in the dust, anyway—for the age of dreamers is immortal. 

And if I can’t fix this nifty golden pen for its original intended use, I do believe it will make quite a splendiferous hair stick! 

A poem—pain—pang

I feel a poem,
I feel a pain
echoing inside me
like a fable only
the shadows share
when they’re bored
of human tears.
Over the years,
I’ve grown old
in these bones and
I never wrote most
of the lovely stories
under my skin
I meant to tell,
and now
I’m not even sure
there’s any ink left
to wet the words
pooling like ancient
blood and dreams
in my heart.
But as long as I can
still trace my name
in the dust, I know
I’ll try to cast yet
another spell.

*For the Age of Dreamers

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #28: How do you love something that is no longer yours?

Gently as Snowfall

*

 *Salt Lake salt crystal ornament from Antelope Island

I’m listening to some of my mother’s cherished Christmas tracks while writing this post; a particular favorite was “Breath of Heaven (Mary’s Song)” by Amy Grant in the CD, Mother & Child. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday season. Growing up, it was often a hectic rush of decorating the house, family get-togethers, eating oven-baked trays of trail mix (*Chex, Cheerios, peanuts and never enough chocolate chips) under a tree decked out to the sparkle-max, caroling, and the story of the Christ Child. Now, my Christmas Day tends to be quieter. 

I was born in the same birth religion as my mother and many of her ancestors before her, but I currently have no certain belief in any particular faith. However, I still hold a fond measure of love for what my mother once held dear—she adored Nativity sets, perhaps because of the hope and tender bond represented by them? She carried a lot of pain and sadness in her life, and I think Nativity sets were like a little sanctuary for her heart’s most gentle wishes. Now when I gaze upon the mother and child figures in the Nativity scene, I am reminded of her kindness, and the love she gave me for the short period she was a part of my life. 

I got to be her daughter, and I will always cherish that connection. Collecting Nativity sets is like drawing a scrap of her warm happiness over me, almost like a cozy blanket in wintertime. I’ve thrifted a few that I know she would’ve loved over the years: 

1. This tiny, beautiful ceramic set made in Guatemala is my newest addition. 

2. I love the simple familial silhouettes and the wooden star in this one.  

3. I never thought I’d be a plate person as I got older, but I couldn’t pass up the comforting embrace of mother and child in “Navajo Madonna” by artist Ted De Grazia.  

The older I get, the more I am shedding things I inherited. Physical and mental belongings that don’t fit me anymore. But sometimes, I pick up something that was once cherished dearly by another now gone from my life. I honor this fragment that they held close to their heart with a soft moment in mine before loving it, and letting it go—

I still hope in you,
In the astral dust
That is mine, too,

That lone sparks may spangle
Existence with keen light.
Even after the death of the last
Star in the sky, when only
Phantom beams grace the dark
Expanse in one final burst of
Photonic radiance, and all
Our heavens and hells fade,

The cosmos will bear
Echo of my heart—

And you in it.

 

*An excerpt from my poem “Wondering Airs,” from Tangible Creatures. Originally published in 2021 in Exponent II, 41(2), 37. 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #27: Hidden Roses

 When once upon a time is a choice, not your fate . . .

*  

“What does the rose during wintertime? She dreams a bright-red dream.” 
-Mascha Kaléko

The strangest thing happened in my garden this year. I have seven rose bushes planted in the front, and for some reason, two of them refused to bloom this summer. My yellow and red rose disdained the premier enticements of fresh garden soil and Miracle-Gro pellets. Eventually toward the fall, the yellow rose grudgingly yielded a few blossoms. But the scarlet petal beauty? Not a ruby singleton. My red rosebush had glossy, healthy leaves and appeared to be pest-free, so I don’t understand why it wouldn’t offer a crimson bud even once.

Sometimes, once upon a time won’t ever happen unless you make the choice first. 

And sometimes, one simply must create their own blossoms in life. I’m excited to share an Artweaver project I’ve been working on since early November (*special thanks to my friend Anna for giving me the perfect name for it). Presenting the “Hidden Roses” cover edition of my fairy tale retelling, A Fair Account of the Traitors Snow White and Rose Red.

How many roses can you count in the picture? It kind of depends on what you count as a rose. 

In this cover edition, I purposefully chose not to show Snow White’s face, because this isn’t truly her story, it belongs to Rose Red. The oft-overlooked sister gazes over her shoulder at readers, inviting them to come along for her misadventures!

I am keenly aware that I still have so much to improve upon with my skills, but considering where I started in June, I’m happy with the progress I have made in learning how to use Artweaver. Also, I’m truly grateful to my family, friends, and writing group for letting me bombard them with various drafts and giving me splendiferous feedback on how to improve my work. (Otherwise, I wouldn’t have recognized that Snow White’s original skirt design did in fact look like a pile of marshmallows . . .)  

2025 has been a year full of unexpected surprises, some good, some bad, and all leading me to a fork in the road with my creative ink. At the start of the year, my co-editor Elizabeth and I decided it was time to end the run of Young Ravens Literary Review after a decade. All 21 issues are now available to read in the Young Ravens Archive. It was important to us to find a way to preserve all the fabulous work of our contributors rather than let it wink out with the website. 

In the summer, I started my adventures with Artweaver and The Luniferous Gazette. Both endeavors scare me as I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m blazing forward with exploring digital artscapes and the peculiar vulnerability of creative nonfiction, and troubleshooting as I go. This was also a year of realizing what I didn’t want anymore. I’ve quit Twitter and put Instagram and Threads on (maybe permanent) hiatus. I felt worn out trying to stay up to speed on every social media platform and risking a severe case of “tileface,” aka scrolling like a mindless zombie. Also, after reading this wonderful post “The Artist’s Rebellion: Breaking Up with the Content Machine” by Ekaterina Popova, I’m truly done trying to please the Almighty Algorithm, too. 

Being more protective of my time has allowed me to focus on creative projects that are closer to my heart, like a Fairy Tale Poetry playlist on YouTube that will feature around ten of my favorite fantasy poems that I’ve inked over the years. In celebration of the Hidden Roses cover, I’m resharing a poem that pairs perfectly with the novel: 

Reddest
—Inspired by Snow White

Sweet incarnadine
Like a deer’s heart
Freshly cut.

I gaze away, blood blind,
Every hue draining into
The pit of my stomach.

All the world hollows coreless
Next to the apple’s
Ruby-given flesh.

I close my eyes against the after
Image of nectarous star, cursing
Those weaker orbs—

No summer-warm sun
Will ever satisfy
Me again,

No moon can appease
My luminous
Ravening.

My lips burn to taste this bright,
Unnamed succulence and
Make it my own.

I’m just a brittle, snow
White shadow
Without it.

*“Reddest.” (July 2014). Star*Line, 37(3), 45. Science Fiction Poetry Association.

In summary, this year has pushed me toward breaking out of a creative rut and exploring new ways to enjoy engaging with the world. This little jeweled apple featured in the YouTube video is one such delight. 

I bought this humble wooden fruit for just 99 cents at the thrift store because I could taste the possibilities sparkling in its bare core. I just needed a lot of glue and rhinestones to reveal its full potential! 

May you all find the hidden gems glistening within your own core. They’re there, even if you can only dream of their glint at first. 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #26: Lost in Laniakea, Found in the Void

 *You are Here

~*~

*Purrito graces this issue with his fluffy paws. 

 

Do you ever have days when you feel acutely planet-bound? As if gravity will grind you to a speck smaller than the most diminutive quark. Or maybe there are days when you feel like your body is dispersing into a cloud of disoriented atoms, and you’ll never be the same again.

Lately, when these moments roll over me, I’ve been trying to adjust my perspective to accommodate an even larger scale. One that reduces quantum tangles of present panic, future fears, and my brief pearl of existence to an even tinier dot in the universe. 

I remind myself that if I feel like I’m flying on the edge of everything . . . I am. In fact, we all are. Our home galaxy, the Milky Way, rides the edge of the Laniakea Supercluster. In Hawaiian, Laniakea signifies “immense heaven” (National Radio Astronomy Observatory). This gigantic supercluster contains a host of 100,000 galaxies interlaced through a web of cosmic filaments. 

And if I close my eyes, I can imagine myself in all this starry serenity, my minuscule mote of consciousness floating freely among throngs of gossamer glory many magnitudes brighter and older and long-lived than me. Somehow, I find it comforting to remember I really am just a mortal pinch of shimmer dust in the grand scheme of things! So why shiver and tremble at my own inconsequentiality when I could bask in the colossal glitter of cosmic coordinates? 

Other times, when I wish to ground my scattered thoughts and emotions back in my body and re-orient my sense of calm, I remind myself that our Milky Way is also floating quite near the center of the KBC Void, a massive spherical region of space empty of almost all stars and planets for two billion light-years across! (Elizabeth Howell, 2017). Yet this deserted space still embraces us, too.  

So, my fellow Earthlings, whenever the wild rush of BEING grows overwhelming, take a moment to lose yourself in the Laniakea Supercluster and refresh your sense of sparkle! Then, recenter your peace in the void that encircles every last star in the Milky Way, including our own life-giving sun. It’s all very human to feel more than one thing at once—

For we are all simultaneously lost in the rich sparkle of the Laniakea Supercluster, and found in the lonely vastness of the KBC Void. 

*Also, the last thing I like to do when I’m striving for a more copacetic state of existence (or to just stop being a super insomniac) is to listen to green noise. It amplifies mid-range frequencies of sound, and our minds perceive green noise as something similar to water—almost like “ocean waves” (Jay Vera Summer, 2025). Green noise echoes like cosmic music in the background of my brain. Or maybe it just reminds me of the dryer spinning a load outside my childhood bedroom at night . . . a familiar, soothing comfort that reorients my tired soul to self. 

Fancy Ink

*I wrote this poem countless years ago. I’m including it because it’s also about the “immense heavens” we feel inside sometimes. It’s meant to be read aloud, and quickly before you lose breath—

My Favorite Blue

The sky inside
hurts me sometimes.
Not today.
The outside upside
high mile of blue
topaz shining
won't let my inside
downslide win.
Cerulean cool
freezes my hot
running tears into
prism-drop 
sky reflectors
a sky that never sets
never lets me
d
o
w
n
for blue wings
(my favorite blue)
guide me up and out!


Sources:

Howell, Elizabeth. (June 14, 2017). “We live in a Cosmic Void.” Space.com. 
https://www.space.com/37191-we-live-in-a-cosmic-void.html

“Newly Identified Galactic Supercluster Is Home to the Milky Way.” National Radio Astronomy Observatory. <https://public.nrao.edu/news/supercluster-gbt/>

Summer, Jay Vera. (July 29, 2025). “What is Green Noise and How Can It Help You Sleep?” Sleep Foundation. <https://www.sleepfoundation.org/noise-and-sleep/what-is-green-noise>

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #25: Five Rituals that Bind Me to My Mother's Memory

Celebrating Early December's Child

*

I am not a winter person, and I never will be no matter how hard I try to pretend. However, the season of ice and frost stars ties me to my mother. A December child, “Bonnie Bess” is forever enshrined with the coming of snowfall and Christmas lights in my mind. She passed away quite suddenly when I was twenty-four. 

I know I should be grateful for how much time I had with her on this Earth, but the older I get, the more mundane silly things I miss being able to share and celebrate with her, like that time I (probably) found a real 1980’s Valentino necklace at the thrift store for under ten bucks! (*Saving that for another post). 

Her memory fades faster than melting snowflakes each year, and I hate that. I want to keep her silhouette crisp as silver tinsel and clear as starlight, which is why I’ve decided that as long as I’m penning The Luniferous Gazette, the first issue in December will always be dedicated to her loveliness.  

 

 Photo from her teenage years

 

So what are the little rituals that still bind me to my mother’s gentle presence?

1. Listening to Gregorian chant and choral music on Sundays. My sisters and I all have fond memories of waking up to the serene echoes of monks, nuns, and a cappella singers as our mom played Chant and Anonymous 4. Christmas also reminds us of our mother whenever we replay Maggie Sansone’s Sound of the Seasons I & II. She was an avid BMG and Columbia House CD club customer, so we were lucky to grow up in her lyrical sanctuary. 

2. Keeping at least one African Violent in my home. Our mother, like her grandmother before her, loved African Violets. Every time I pass a colorful collection of these flowers in the garden section of a grocery store, I can’t help a little smile as I think how much my mom would’ve enjoyed them, too.

 

 

3. Writing down poetry and quotes in a notebook. My mother kept a notebook full of her favorite poems and sayings her entire life, and she’d often share them when I was going through tough times. This is one of my personal favorites: 

“If at night you cry for the sun, you won’t see the stars.” –Rabindranath Tagore.

It’s a bit wrinkled, but the Spanish version of this quote that belonged to my mom accompanied me all through college, and is now framed and jeweled (albeit a tad crookedly) on my dining room wall:

 

 

I have a habit of screenshotting any online quotes or poems I like to reread later, but that fills up my phone fairly fast, and frankly, I often forget about them. So, I’ve started transcribing them in my own notebook with my terrible handwriting. I find the process quietly soothing. More than that, it makes the author’s message more believable and memorable, as if by taking the conscious effort to pen them on paper, I am etching their words deeper into my heart, too. 

One of my favorites is from my sister B: “Don’t look into the void! Fill it with sparkles. There’s always enough room for sparkle.”                                                                      

4. Reading stories aloud. My sisters and I all have vivid memories of our mother reading the Green Knowe book series by Lucy M. Boston to us at night. She in turn inspired me to read J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series to my younger sisters, and now they have fond recollections of my attempts at a Gollum voice. 

Although I can’t help cringing a bit at my awkwardness on camera, I also enjoy creating story and read-aloud content on YouTube. I plan to record more stories and poems starting next year, and already have a ridiculous podcast title in mind that makes me snicker each time I think of it (sorry, no hints). Sometimes, you must set aside the fear of being “cringe-worthy” to allow for a little fun. Reading aloud becomes both an act of confidence and a creative blend of ink and voice, which is why I think it can be such an imaginative experience.  

5. TV Entertainment. Thanks to our mother’s wide curiosity and interests, we grew up with Reading Rainbow, Nova, Star Trek, British mystery series like Miss Marple and Poirot, the whimsy of Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre, the thrill of watching the Triple Crown horse races and Olympic Ice Skating competitions, and oh yes—disaster movies. And not just any, I mean potential MEGA disasters like the sudden volcanic eruption of Yellowstone! 

My mom probably would’ve really enjoyed John Cusack’s crazy 2012 film. I was so excited to tell my sisters about the Norwegian series La Palma when it came out on Netflix, because we all remembered watching a documentary with our mother about just such a hypothetical mega-disaster. Watching such flicks and chatting about them afterwards may be a silly sort of ritual, but one that brings us all a good chuckle. 

*Bonus Ritual

I accidentally started this little ritual a few years ago. I began buying bouquet brooches whenever I saw them at the thrift store to place in front of my mother’s jar of ashes and photos. It’s just a minor symbolic way to honor her memory, but it brings me a tiny thimble’s worth of joy. I like placing this vintage Avon rose brooch in front of a snowflake-frame picture my mother gave me of herself when I went off to my first year of college. 

 

I hardly have any photographs of my mother in her later years as she was very self-conscious about how health issues had impacted her body image, so I cherish her smile and the shining swoop of her dark hair here. Not that I’m biased as her daughter or anything, but I believe her kind spirit and beauty deserve all the bouquets in every multiverse!

 

A Final Note 

At the very winnowed end of this year, I hope you take time to let those dear to you know of that velvet-warm dearness, deep as a hug. And not just what they mean to you in all their big ways, but in the small slices of happiness they bring your life, too, rich as pumpkin pie. Because one day, that moment will simply pass. There will be no more plates to share, no feast among gone-away family and friends, just little rituals that bring a pang and a smile and maybe, a treasured echo of their presence. 
 

Ink Afterthoughts 

In honor of my mother’s birthday, my poetry ebook Tangible Creatures will be free to download off Amazon from Friday, December 5th to Tuesday, December 9th this month. Many of the poems are about her, both the losing and the finding: 

“Mother ash undone universe
Breathe into me—
(Just one more time)
But how does one plead with a ghost?
How dare I ask for some
MORE.”

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #24: Vivid Viands

A Stroll Along the Linear Trail

* 

I recently asked my best friend what she would like to see more of in the gazette. I’ve barraged her long-suffering ears with my story ideas for at least twenty-five years now, but this time, she got to pick what I inked. Anna (*her chosen nickname henceforth in my writing) requested “a post on pearls” and “more pictures.” Oddly enough, last year I picked up a peculiar book on the history of pearls from the thrift store. So that post is definitely coming later! However, today I wish to present a pictorial tour of the Linear Trail as a minor visual feast. “Vivid viands” seem a fitting theme for this week, after all. 

When I visited the New England side of my family in September, I found myself alone for a few hours one hot and humid afternoon. The golden slant of the sun hit just right on the skin—you know, that feeling when the rays waver between unbearable prickles and cozy radiance? 

 

 

I couldn’t resist taking a stroll on the Linear Trail, which was luckily accessible within minutes from my family’s apartment complex. The Linear Trail is a splendid little necklace of connecting walking paths, a slim-paved ribbon bordering a river with wild groves of trees, skunk cabbage, jewelweed and copious poison ivy on both sides. 

I spent many of my adolescent years wandering there. Many times, when I was fractured by the immensity of teenage emotions, I would walk or bike on the Linear Trail until all my energy was spent. Until nature swallowed my little mind in her wide-open miles, and I gratefully dissolved my own frazzled entity under dendritic shadows and the falling green and orange blossoms of the Tulip Tree, Liriodendron Tulipifera.

I was so happy for a brief chance to greet my old friend. The Linear Trail offered its bounty once again to my tired soul, and I hope these tinted fragments of beauty cheer your spirit, too.  

Let’s start with a fine garnish of scattered star spray for the eyes’ enjoyment: 

Followed by an appetizer of fairy-berry hues:

Aren’t they just as pretty as pastel pearls, or Easter eggs?

Let’s start the first course with a miniature bouquet of sunlight:

Then complement it with a petite sprig of Jewelweed gold:

 

Course number two is dark and heavy with luscious midnight hues:

Wash it down with a gaze upon this nebula-burst of nascent pink dreams: 

 Leave room for a bold and heady streak of yellow light like a comet’s tail:

Now we reach the third course: shadow-play. Bitter as dark chocolate, but somehow, you can’t get enough of these divine snaps of shade. 

Let the delicate blue syrup of the sky drizzle and filter through the soft shadows directly into your pupils:

Oh! I almost forgot the final treat. Let your eyes (not your mouth) devour the gummy-glow of these scarlet candified hues:

Winter is already very much here where I live. Nature has put many of these bright colors to rest for a season. I’m glad that I could share this little handful of gems that dazzle even in the darkest, coldest hours. 

*I’m squeezing in one last jewelweed picture as takeout treasure to warm up later:

 ~*~ 

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