A Canvas, a poem by Kate MacDonald at Spillwords.com
Nomad Soul 1

A Canvas

A Canvas

written by: Kate MacDonald



I wait, primed, pristine, for the familiar, oft-known touch
of an artist with paint and brushes. Which of many will it be?
Will today bring long lanquid strokes? Will bristles soft,
fan out to disperse oily colours, in undulating loops and swirls?

Perhaps a pure red sable brush might appear, to blend and soften my edges.
Or will there be brisk impatient jabs from stubbier bristles?
This allows an impression to be left on pools of acrylic paint to point the way
to the vision. Then the pallet knife slices the air.

The cold, sharp metal, when wielded by a sure hand, builds landscapes,
forests, seas, and rivers with ease, so that no other touch is needed.
Artists have at their command, extensions of themselves within their tools.
You can then be transported to a world of their making, to sooth or stimulate.
So, squint your eyes, tilt your head, take a deep, soft breath, and see.

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