I consider the future yet
refuse to see it too soon.
If it is sketched with rapid charcoaled messages,
as with vapor curling from a marsh,
the lines will rise and disappear.
I put my hand on the canvas
and stare as fingers seem to pass through the threads.
The masterpieces of my journey
cannot be forced, pulled or shaped;
It is a synchronized unfolding,
a peace march with the Universe,
one step at a time.
I take the wooden horsehair brush of life events
and crop circle the easel
like Salome dancing for the king.
I want to entice this empty surface
to be what I so desire.
I implore it to hold still for my touch.
I spread flying oils of magenta
on the white woven texture with rolled strokes,
then teal, gold, and burnt sienna
layered in double-dutch jump rope time.
Splashes of color rain down
on this living panting
of tangerine lips,
and olive limbs
a womanly landscape of hills and rivers.
Creative ventures are very intimate experiences between you and the medium