by Carol Bass
MY BLACK RIVER
Which I named this painting that originally expressed a romantic notion by me, of a wild river in the swamps of South Carolina. But to my horror I discovered, a Hunting Lodge there, of archaic proportions, where, in one photograph, the blood of wild boar is smeared across the face of one young smiling woman. So many dark places yet, because of human ignorance, where the light of poetry, music, and art cannot shine through the cypress trees. But keep singing, keep painting.