The Artist

By the old drawn farm houses,
by the straw-thatched river,
whose pale yellow arms reach into the day,
art succeeds beyond the canvas,
the splintered piece
hanging on a wooden frame.
From the edge of the water,
where colors bleed into one another,
trailing off the surface itself;
there rests underneath that canvas,
her hands wrinkled and stunned.
Although those fingernails
are gray from mixtures of paint,
she consumes the image.
So, one morning,
when the birds happen to sing
the song of childhood harmony,
she may paint the landscape
in which she dreams;
neglect and reticent
to the metal machines
and burgundy sheets.