They know
      because
     they learn
     to let go

Opportunity after opportunity
some could say leads to discontinuity
or spontaneity?
Can it lead to deity?
Frailty surely will come,
But we can spark that with
originality?!
Frivolity can be a gateway,
To birthing new possibility.
Imagine the ingenuity!

Drenched in feeling
Eyes drink the landscape

I could swear that each colour was
emotion-tinted
sorrow-toned
anguish-textured

How many stretched hours of living
made each heavy brush-scar?

What volume of rinsing tears
for each change of shade?

Why did the artist know instinctively that the people
were so small
in such a vast, pigment-thick world?

From this distance they feel like children
But I know that they are grown
At least on the outside

Agony
and aesthetics
amalgamate in
assembled alchemy

Are these thoughts
artist-intentioned
landscapist-birthed
painter-engineere­d?

Or are they my thoughts
reflected
by brush strokes?

Designed to elicit, not instruct
To return, not to teach
To cast-back, not to create

This open canvas
in muddy colours

A perfect, terrible mirror
Helping me gently
in my now softened
sadness

on my chest as a buttoned
vest. It's a stone I carry
in my purse for better or
worse. I have wings inside

my cage. But they've grown dull
as I have aged. Quiet days blend
into dark fitful nights. The only
shine is my lamp light. My pen,

my only friend. It's there in the morning
with my coffee. And doesn't speak
back to me. Where I place it is
where it stays. It lies on the table

next to the sunflowers and cable. Fits
like a glove in my hand. Everything goes
as planned. All inside the squares,
in a house with empty chairs.