the brush is a mongrel moon
a sop of soap stone, lump of foolish
grains in my hands, grey from winter
my fingertips are callous
unfeeling of any rhythm on canvas
i am slumbering shadow of dust
among the fine selections of books in garden
the sun brings a jingle of spring's eyes
as bouquet of wildflowers for the first
time & i am enamored with torrential clouds
of hues, shapes & hollows & tangent of words, whorls
of verses, as if famished, i drink it slowly
colors infuse & thrum, sharp as limes & lemons
my lips are basted by magenta & saffron spice
uncorked, honeycomb drips unabashed on ground
bees alight in morning blush of dewdrop
as if i am apricot tulip, budding rosy
a new day, i
am
Title from: A Painter Without a Brush (Gerhard Richter)
Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics: The Poet as Painter, Hosted by Laura Bloomsbury. Please join us for a wonderful prompt at 3pm EST.
