#235 May Ends

by B.B. Fultz

She comes sublime, in her own time, and speaks of the viol and the vine. And here deep in this quiet place, of powder blue and gold, I wait. And when silk pools on the floor and she stand bare as a newborn, I take in all her wiles. She cocks her head and smiles. I raise the brush and know I’ll never do her justice, with these careless sweeping curves of color thrown on blank white space. She comes here for no wanton dalliance, no lustful alliance. No graceful dance, no great romance. She only comes to be remade with pallate and with paint, like a blossom waiting for the spring to lend it color and hue. To make it true. Yet I cannot finish, for I cannot begin. I take her in, and would fall at her feet, if even those would meet my lips, but I am I and she is she, and it is not to be. And so I stand and look, and linger in her smile, and all the while she speaks of viols and vines, here in this studio of powder blue and gold.

1 comment:

Sarah Laurenson said...

Beautifully done. I love the rhythm of this piece.