Two hours before dawn.
All is still.
Through an open window
the night sky glitters
with ten thousand distant suns.
And hanging over low hills
a crescent moon bathes the valley below
in its ghostly glow.
There are feelings beyond words
which every human heart
has known. And defying all
logic or reason
the inexpressible seeks
expression through a play
of brushstrokes
on canvas
which might serve
as an imperfect reflection
of infinite flow.
The small room reeks
of turpentine.
And deftly held by
a paint-stained hand
the brush pauses
midair, poised
to make
the first stroke.
