November 25, 2013

Fluorescent lights flicker,
Illuminating an empty easel
In the center of the room.
One squared window peers
Down at the paint splatters
Adorning the hardwood;
She always likes to work
Right around sunset.
“It’s the one time of day,”
She would explain, “That
The change outside is
Finally transparent.”

Slowly, intentionally, her
Deft fingers caress the edge
Of a three by three canvas,
Lifting it onto the easel and
Carefully centering it.
A pause, briefly, as if to
Appreciate the dull white
Of the canvas itself. There
Was no palette picked out,
No planning of any kind.
She simply let herself move
And breathe the art into life.

Brown, darker than cocoa,
Like tilled earth, and green,
Stolen from the leafy boughs
Of a thousand forest canopies,
All colliding into one pattered
Landscape that consumed
Two-thirds of the canvas.
She hastily searched for a
Well-used paint bowl, and
Gathered reds, blues,
And a dash of off-white.
Brushes aside, this needed a
More tactile, expert touch
To truly come through.
A field of lavender, burst
Into reality, dripping down
From the sheer beauty
Captured within.



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