Easel, thin neck stretching like an egret,
The charcoal dust that clings and covers skin,
Undersketch, a painting’s tattooed secret,
A still-life: all of these things live within
The studio— a stark and sacred space:
A hospital, a birthing room, a church—
I come to it when I am seeking grace,
And even when I’m tired of the search,
My art class is unfailingly well-timed.
I like the rush that follows the restraint—
My palette ready, canvas stretched and primed
And when the time has finally come to paint—
My brush bristles with color, builds the bones
Of new form— sacred light, and temporal tones.
(published in Mezzo Cammin, Volume 2, Issue 1)