Lyndall Carvell Fry is a poet whose creative spark was kindled by the simple yet spellbinding scene of her father painting in their garage. As a child, she’d watch him work with basic house paints—browns and yellows mostly—while he transformed their everyday surroundings into vibrant, abstract landscapes. “He called himself a colorist,” Lyndall recalls, “though he always kept painting as a personal pastime rather than a professional goal. He once told me, ‘I did it as a pastime with no intention of ever becoming a professional artist…in a way, art found me rather than me finding art.’”

Those words stayed with Lyndall. The same quiet joy and creative drive that guided her father’s brush would eventually guide her pen. Over the years, she discovered that poetry can capture an emotional palette every bit as compelling as paint on canvas. In her verses, she explores how small, familiar moments—like the gift of a tube of red paint or a memory shared at dusk—take on deeper meaning when seen through the lens of imagination.