on a courthouse square where girls
in long skirts and boys in
sang. The sound of acoustic guitars
did something glad to my soul.
I discovered paint and words are very
for a girl who loves rain
and the word blue. Words are more yielding
for someone like me, my fingers trace them
while I dream.
Not that the words yield, but that I learn to give
a little here and there like a real piece of work
A paint brush, I thought, would be like a poem
it is not. I am clumsy with it and had to teach the
colors to yield, blend, and I had to work from the bottom up
When I write a poem, it is more like working from the top
downward, like yoga, maybe
or the word blue. I live inside of it.
I try to speak or write about
but I don’t like that word it tastes like
sucking on a metal hanger when I was eight
it held my tongue for weeks and daisies
smelled like nickel plating.
I think for the painter, it is like poetry and I may dislike you
if you see both and do both and live inside of both.
Because it is like astronomy. I can learn it but I will never stand on the moon.
Yet, I will paint again because it expressed
that purple is my favorite color, but not a word
I will empty all over a blank canvas. No.
Twin girls watched us sit down and pick
up stiff brushes, taught us how to make the seas foam
and how soft water is. I watched them
calm and they were like the trees or the façade
of the old courthouse. Beautiful
and I loved my hometown a little more.
We took pictures with our art
my daughters and my best friend
each piece as separate
as a brush stroke.
Which really is not so separate when you take a step back.
There is a moment when it all becomes whole.
That moment is a gift.
Later, my oldest ate watermelon
with her hands behind her back. And I thought.
What a beautiful day. Right now I am as soft, sweet,
round and open as the word blue.