Framed

At times it would be nice to be a painter.
Today with this dark morning rain.

Start with a wash of complications,
like what’s being dumped from the sky
with a soppy run-off from the side
of an opaque mountain.

An ancient and hidden heft
writhes as a matt of fur
and claw in there. So bring it
to the dry canvas, prepared
stretched, bound taut ready
to knock about an echo
of physical brawn.

....................Then, slowly,
a submission with the corners,
leaking from the furrows of old
earthen brown, drawn out to sprout
in coagulated roils towards the sky
like rivulets spitting up through cellulose.

Seems what should follow would be
some nictating neon green to top
what can become a grove of salt
soaked trees, as each brush stroke
falls with the faults of inspired details.

But not to let the colors drown exhausted.
Better to leave bits crass and fresh instead,
and then back off... scattered brief
with staggered hesitation,

before lifting in, here and there,
some final reflective dashes of yellow.

.......................Almost too much
for flat dimensions of a drywall, a heavy
collapsing melange that can flood
the floor with wood splinters and tar,
the roof collpased in pinholes.

Its the gall of undeluded flow, engrossed
beyond the frames with a bold augment
purged through flexed muscle of emotion,
and when you’re ready to walk on,

is surrounded by white translucence.