Your blank
Canvas,
Stretched tight
Over pieces of
Pine,
Pre-primed.

You stand
At your easel,
One hand blue,
Laying down
Construction lines
With your fingers.

It tickles but I
Hold my breath.

You put down
The darkest colours 
First, that’s what
They taught you,
Until it looks
Like Hell.

Then you work back
Towards the light,
A little piece
Of Heaven
In every
Added tone.

You stand back,
Take it in,
And though it
Looks unfinished,
You know it’s
Perfect as it is.

—
January 9, 2012.