He once fired oil on canvas
while standing in fields,
his brush or pigment-stained
fingertips darting in sure,
quick strokes –
but if I dare to look back
it was really through soul.
From a heart too sore
from purity yet aching
for so much more –
something real, true
and holy
like glimpsing eternity
through the trees
approached, if at all,
through love’s front door.
It was a lonely walk filled
with all sorts of folks –
from friends and family to strangers
crowding out the stage
with so many roles
still left to play.
And he thought or hoped
they’d glimpse what he could see
far off in the distance
yet achingly near –
beauty in a weathered face
or blooming flower
or showered beneath a sea
of stars
shining just overhead
which all reflected,
if you slowed down
and cared
to look close enough,
the mad and mysterious
ways of divinity.
But what they really saw
was never his to know.
For a heart only beats
what it holds,
and what it does
seems to be an illusion
about its flawed and fatal humanity.
Or like a child
unlearning curiosity
which refuses to stretch
for toys seemingly out of reach,
is only left to believe
in what you can see
and touch and taste.
What a waste.
