There were trim grains in the wood
that framed the streaming light
from a window early bright
which bent with a firm bristle
forms from a sweet morn.
Strokes of a strong hand,
"he's painting"
I said to the pillow.
to none, was I explaining
but he was there,
with his Modigliani oils
laying his soul bare.
Medium streaming thumb
in the mouth of palette
in cool colored thoughts
of blue-eyed mysticism,
Avocado hues and the many,
warmed robes of Saratoga.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 12:26 AM UTC
There were trim grains in the wood
that framed the streaming light
from a window early bright
which bent with a firm bristle
forms from a sweet morn.
Strokes of a strong hand,
"he's painting"
I said to the pillow.
to none, was I explaining
but he was there,
with his Modigliani oils
laying his soul bare.
Medium streaming thumb
in the mouth of palette
in cool colored thoughts
of blue-eyed mysticism,
Avocado hues and the many,
warmed robes of Saratoga.
