The studio’s windows
are shuttered against the light.
Cobwebs hang like drapes
from the room’s four corners.
Hardened tubes of oil paint
fill a musty cardboard box.
My easel collects dust
in a sideboard’s drawer.
I haven’t held a brush
for more than a decade
as all of my landscapes
have somehow dried up
while season after season
has silently slipped by
like wind-blown tumbleweeds
past my front door.
