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.