Gallery Note They called them Maiden Flowers, those delicate roses that only grew along the path to the old vineyard estate—blooms said to open only in the presence of women who carried secrets. The young mother reached for one with practiced ease, her daughters watching, hands full of blossoms that had been plucked with more instinct than permission. Behind them, the wolf lay far too still, its eyes half-closed, as though listening for something unsaid. The air was thick with fragrance and some- thing more—a hush that had less to do with the heat, and more to do with what had happened there before. Or perhaps, what was about to happen again. Artist Inspiration She plucks them with a practiced hand, As daughters watch and understand— Not with words, but with the eyesOf those who learn where silence lies. by Paul Reeb Artist
