Canvas, a poem
Canvas
What
colors shall I paint
upon
the blank canvas
of
this day? The pigments
dry
upon my palette,
the
ultramarine and cobalt,
alizarin,
gamboge;
stiff-bristled
brushes stand
in
old coffee cans,
the
Yuban and Bustelo,
ready
to my hesitant
hand.
Another cup
before
I work, before
I
set brush to this
emptiness?
In paint
is
every choice, those made
and
those I leave in sketches.
Stephen
Brooke ©2014
It seems that once I start writing poetry again, it snowballs. For a while---I'll fall into another all-consuming project soon, I'm sure, and the poetry will dwindle.
