The Artist


Curious sun
Dances warm across his hands
His fingers fill with light
A flash of power, a roundness
Inherent within the making
Not in its final form
But in the wetness of creation
Imposing a frame of reality
Where the moment left his hands
And entered mine
The slowly emerging scene
Of depth and shadow
Movement and concentration
The darkness
Dripping off the last remains
Now it has its own power
To be touched or to touch
Though he removes his hands
To give it freedom
He remains within it
And from his fingers
Wet jewels of light
Drop into my eyes

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