The canister fell, its contents spilling.
Paint-infused water covered the floor,
permeating the cracks of the tile,
staining it.
Brushes lay wet and askew.
The artist stares blankly,
briefly.
He picks up the container
and carries it to the sink.
There is little water left,
and what is there, is quickly
poured.
He watches it swirl downward,
indiscriminately,
into the drain. A fleeting
spiral.
He is finding the beauty in small things.
This is a slightly reworked version of the poem that is much closer to the original in form and content. I couldn't bear to share the fully original version, as I really don't feel like it's aged well at all.
