It’s not the painting itself that I enjoy so much
but rather the look of the paint, and the touch,
and the feel of it on my hands and fingers,
and the way a dusty canvas lingers.
It’s not the young woman, lovely in her chair,
but rather the shade and the shine of her hair;
how her skin begins where her clothing ends,
and if skin is the thing upon which she depends.
It’s not the stalks of wheat swaying in the sun,
but the calm of the field when day is done,
while a cup waits for the singing kettle
and seems to demand that the twilight settle.
It’s not the desire to cut through the wood,
but the weight of the axe and the heat of my blood,
it’s the taste of the darkness beneath my coat,
and pausing to burn up a page that I wrote.