April 25, 2022
On Learning to Paint
More often than not, I’ve simply stood
in dumb awe at the world,
unmoving, unable to speak, a gasp
held tight in my chest.
Near my heart.
But now, I load my brush with cobalt,
red cadmium, opera pink, umber.
There’s a method for painting anything:
feathered wings of jays,
bark of a willow tree,
scales of an angelfish.
But not for things that have no shape or mass:
the needle-thin ring of the wind chimes
or my sister’s laugh.