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.

August Woods

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.