Sometimes
when I'm
mixing paint,
and my tired hands
are moving in their silent
rotation, stirring two,
three, four
pigments together,
I wonder:
why
colors come
together
(like they
do)
and how my aging bones can
possibly hold
a paintbrush
(like
they do)
and when I sit in front of
your easel
and I put paint on a
naked
canvas
I wonder:
how it's
possible
that things can
come together
(like they
do-)

that things can fade
or remain,
(and they do-)

how every piece of art is
the perpetual
portrait
of togetherness,

and how they
manage to
move me,
(like they do)