I drew 91 drawings of vines after my mother died in August and my father died in October of the same year.  It was my way of mourning. These were intuitive drawings, and only later did I fathom their meaning. They are lives lived – vines intertwined winding through time, trumpet and briar blooming in fire.

If we were vines we could look back and see all who we had touched.  Always they sought to flower.  Maybe I drew vines because when I first moved to Texas I pulled down vines for days that were encircling and killing my bushes.  I left red trumpet vines to climb high in one tree.