Speed wobbles

Racing past

one gets the landscape

by an Impression-ist wrist

At the window, the color box spilt

noting the puffs on the palette

pushing by, running in streams

the mouth waters, dipping brushes, the tongue wiggles

if I could reach out, put my hand in

this water colored river, grasping

gasping for shape, I'd find only

orange

I’m afraid

to hold, still life

that poses as natural

representations of still-yet this is also

dead and buried plaster in acrylic

and the fiber bleeds, canvas cracks

like us, as personal whims

which color where

wafting pass a blended note

complimentary, nice to the eye

you catch mid-air, a mood, a tone

holding it there, while it is thrust forward

continuously, ever

taking souvenirs

wherever you go, grabbing

blades in the wind

at the expanse,

taking it all together

in-

distinct

as rain on glass

racing past.

Image by Georges Seurat, 1882 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.