When I finish a painting, I usually ask myself “so, what was that all about?” Sometimes the answer takes me by surprise with a poem, sometimes not.
Is it the spice sharp smell that beckons? Or silence? Or ochre light that quivers and Falls between my feet, licks of sun, August heat. Perhaps the dark describes my needs, Promise of coolness, maybe A breeze to push this spirit And brush together. But no air stirs in these hushed pines; Only deep stillness, a heartbeat, And the Tao. I shiver, tremble Inside its hot breath.