There is a sound to drips and dabs, softer than a fish sashay
breaking into light,
there is a sound and the quick dance of bristles,
and alphabets embedded into eyes,
it is like that.
A waltz of trial and error, marks across a slate
as sure as ice skates in January.
Most of this is invisible but keenly felt,
finding your way into joy.
What remains is so often bewildering and indistinct,
a morning, a day turned into a week
of going back to that almost.
And there is only a remnant left,
frenzied marks of longing.
This is a repost of a 2011 entry for my contribution to Seth Apter's "BURIED TREASURE"
collaboration on The Altered Page. I chose it for the art work as well as my poetry that accompanied it. Of the 298 posts on Cinnamon Studio, it encapsulates my art process as well as the creative spirit that guides my work.
This is a repost of a 2011 entry for my contribution to Seth Apter's "BURIED TREASURE"
collaboration on The Altered Page. I chose it for the art work as well as my poetry that accompanied it. Of the 298 posts on Cinnamon Studio, it encapsulates my art process as well as the creative spirit that guides my work.
