the tree sways in the wind,
leaves drift left and right,
downward and downward,
baby rocking in mother’s arms…
Painting
the eyebrows and the eyelashes
are out of order,
the moon is pock-marked,
I’m standing on a tilting plane…
it’s so loud, I can’t hear everything
at once, the yellow is thrumming, insisting…
Magritte speaks to me,
even when I can’t make out the words…
How does one follow
the sun to survive…
Paint everywhere,
strokes here and there and everywhere,
with no apparent care of thought…
If you take a look
at this painting,
you’ll notice a bear…
now i like many people operated under the assumption that the only difference between me and the fancy people painters was the fancy people paint
Being the canvas,
that changes under the brush…
I saw a painting,
of the canals and old stone walls…
Daily Poets 