Janice Harris Biography

Wet clay lies flat on the ground until gentle hands form a head. Then arms and feet follow. With each twist another part is molded. Eyes, mouth, nose and ears, a body stands tall. Erected from the clay.
A blank canvas lies flat on the easel until gentle hands pick up a brush. With each stroke the canvas comes to life. Flowers, cottages, and animals jump onto the page. Snow and rain beating against mountains and valley stare back. Erected from the paint.
Rocks stare formless on the banks of rivers and deserts. Gentle hands pick up a chisel and begin to form images. Tap, tap, tap and characters and shapes begin to emerge. Breathing pulses into stones. Erecting from stone.
Hardness turns to softness. Darkness turns into shining polish. Rough edges are smoothed away. The hands of the master shape the future of the thing. Sculpting beautiful silhouettes of splendor and purpose.
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Darkness falls just before day break
I almost taste the sound of new beginnings
Painful echoes of lost yesterdays
Approaching whistles of tomorrows
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When I get to thinking, I get to thinking hard
I get to thinking hard and I get to thinking long
Thinking, thinking, thinking
Thinking about the times when life seemed easier
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I emerged shivering from the icy water
Every bone in my body pounding and aching
My face blank with bewilderment
Searching for answers
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Old Mr. Rooster came walking past my door
It was the day before Thanksgiving
He wasn't scarred no more
He walked right on past the front porch
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