A painter without a brush is a memory of the body still hidden
in darkness;
its scent caught in the many folds of bedspread,
toss him a canvass perfectly white
and watch as sand rushes to meet with the shades of his palette:
pale cream
leaning toward carob, orange, pink, gold and black,
all of which make haste
to glide through defenses and meld with tempestuous wavesโ€”
itโ€™s the shortest love poem ever written.
To match his mood is silence,
whispered words that wield sin and salvation, every time
he looks at the sky;
lips are lullaby as night moves distinctly and with purpose,
the moon has a face that haunts from the past, to the present
and
into the future foreverโ€”
observe how one dares to describe denuded of instrument.
I am dreams scaffolded,
the satin lining of my heart consists of texture of the hills long
after the snow has melted;
exhale deeply,
come lose yourself in subtletiesโ€”when the air
is filled with birdsong;
a painter without a brush is a memory of the body
still hidden in darkness.

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Henrik. Aa. Uldalen “Work in Progress,” Pinterest

Laura hosts at dVerse tonight and invites us to join in with
a plethora of wonderful choices. I chose to write to the title
“A Painter without a Brush,” by Gerhard Richter. ๐Ÿ’

Posted for Poetics: The Poet as Painter @ dVerse Poets Pub