Paint drips down canvas like sweat,
down a cool glass in the summer.
The colors vibrant in adjacency like the leaf of spring
Under the new honey of a bumble bee,
Sweet with the mirth of harmonious activity
The hum of the earth in a brush stroke
A melody drifting through a gentle breeze
Something you can smell in your ears
And hear in your nose
And touch with your soul
Drown in the sound until you can breathe,
Lost until you can find your way.
The paint dries. The canvas waits.
Something is happening outside.
Fibers and roots interwoven through earth
A tight chaotic braid, fraying on one end
The other well anchored, but the source
Of its stability remains buried under soil.
A unseen
tombstone, unmarked and nameless
Everything underneath wants to rise up
Through the millennia, bursting forth
From a slumber of gradual disremembrance
And dissonance like a bell that once clang
And its clanging vibrations are subtle trimmers
Somewhere in outer space
But now the air is still, or is it that we have
Not the ears to hear.
Leah and I wrote this together on a date night. I believe we wrote it just after we were married... probably sometime in 2011? Only minor edits made here.
