Nothing I say could give a true picture of the man who  was Bill Paxton.  Botanist, artist, adventurer, poet, humorist, friend.  There is so much more to him.  I only became acquainted with him a few years ago.  I long to know more.  During our first conversation he talked to me about dancing, dancing with his wife. Of course we talked about art and he encouraged me.  He scolded me for not taking his favorable critique of my work as strongly as I should have. We talked about butterflies and picking up road kill and grape vines and wild roaming stands of milkweed and all his myriad of interests. He wrote the most winding, twisting, fun, interesting poetry and it usually made us laugh.  Our group of artists always hung on the edge of our seats, quietly waiting to see if he would show up.  It wouldn’t be as much fun if he was late, or, dread, maybe not make it because of another engagement, teaching or what ever.  Busy, busy, busy.  I saw him a week ago.  He died this morning.  Earth Day.  He left a big empty space.