The bead maker at work, late at night, Mozart’s “Serenata Notturna” weaves in and out of the flame like an alluvial thread.

A rosebud opens in the mortars of glass. Through the flame the past comes back and disguises itself as a night of stars; dark garnet, muscat, misty rose.

The geometry of a violin solo, a bouquet of roses, a night of dreams and stars –how the light folds itself into each dark petal.

The afterimage of flame is a blue bell –one ring for the moon, two rings for the journeys stranded in the heart, three rings for the rose.

The rose has a layer of reality and a layer of mysticism –both beautifully worked into patterns and concealed in multiple veils –which is the nature of a spiritual object.

In the coiled light of memory I am recreating something from darkness, something the color red occupies, a prism of light, the enduring beauty of an ancient dream.

I look down into the flame inside of stone and see elements of brushstroke, cloth texture, pure overlapping color, the reflection of light and thought.

The light flows back in afterthought. To understand the way it moves up out of nowhere is to know how the sunlight falls and is a thing of the past, over and over again.

The earth is moving in space. I open a window and beyond, in the deep sky, the Pleiades is a cordage of stars, a point of reference.

What takes place is transformational, twilight tints, indigo shades, beryl transparencies, the superlunary blue of time and space.

A master of improvisation and mechanics, Galileo traveled to Murano and persuaded a bead maker to teach him to make glass, and grind it to refractory specifications.

One night in 1609, Galileo set up a telescope, and one eye wild with starlight, looked into the night sky. The refraction of light in glass proved the universe was not an illusion.

That night, tracking the path of light in the starry sky through a glass lens made with bead making tools, he looked deeper into the sky than anyone ever had.

As the sun rose over Florence, Galileo calculated the movement of stars. The light released at creation bends toward the earth, and Galileo saw it through glass.

A stone sinks into a bed of rose petals that forever unfold outward, a dark star washes up on the shores of the sun like a fiery water color brushed onto the night sky.

I work late into the night, a dance of light in my eyes. In the mystery of glass that returns each night to stone, there is a rosebud ticking in a grain of sand.

As the morning circles the earth, “Serenata Notturna” is a thread of time in the cordage of space, a mythic pattern of woman being there.

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