What these leaves knew, what these skies sang of, what these bright glass walls heard, I don’t know. Or don’t want to. Don’t need to. Knowing is sometimes all I want and so impossible in that it changes like the pages of a newspaper blowing across the street. Across the table is fruit. I may eat if I desire. Outside the window is more or less or something different. A cold damp thin finger of time wags at me. Yet, I have the sun in my veins and the moon in my eyes and stars in my breath. Glow brightly you tangled belching fruit of spring’s vine. Keep growing. Thought you have been picked. Though you have been eaten. Keep growing bigger and redder and bolder and heavier and tastier and sweeter. Forever.
Bowl of Fruit is acrylic on canvas 30″×40″