Friday, October 31, 2008


her hands the color of mediterranean olives oiled smooth young, nails jutting out of clear skin no lines no scratches no scars rich like changing tones of day

as she paints each move of the wrist fingers choreographed against the sound of color the brush circling sure hesitant marking every note across the page

sits, against a backdrop of anger and history thinking purple sketching lyric creating lines reaching out toward every horizon

how does she, one wonders, compose each line as if set to music without tone, coming together in the realm of present fragments turned whole, continuous

turning toward breathing deeply woven with layers of incarnation imagined possibilities in each shadow from the time before and into

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