painting is butchery
is beautification of breaths
as they bubble hastily out
sometimes mad
like suddenly breaking glass
or pond
sometimes springs
tinkling down stones
painting is thunder
slowly rising
or the perfect fury of it
I hesitate, stuck astray,
as the hues awaiting
wait
reap or harvest, must I burn or
decorate?
but, tentative, I breathe
inevitably on
and suddenly
it is all here
09/03/2022
the nights smells like Arabian jasmines. I wish I could climb over these cement houses and shops and track the spring down to its home. come quickly over, please. I have missed my plants