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.
