A world of color and hue,
a world that remembers the nuance of light and shadow,
of how darkening waters still send up a glitter,
a spark of sunlight,
a world quiet but for birdsong drifting on air . . .
Sometimes the brush works with you, sometimes not.
Another layer of paint,
Losing track of time -- is it day or is it night?
Does it matter?
Muscles begin to ache,
Has it been that long?
The body needs time
not to fight the flow,
to corral the brushwork.
surrender . . .