What painting is
and what painting can be
pushed through at dawn
the light of wind.
In the now, the all stirs,
lavender lightness no longer
a prisoner of our rotating globe,
but is the maker of roundness
and is released to flush the dew
as exploded crystalline salt into the morning.
I, quiet, await no one,
but shrug to remember the questions posed
from all the nights before,
and in the streaming silence of light
am but another shadow in that burst,
blown free by query.
I quest: oh,
to matter as much as color
or warm as much as sunlight kissing the wind,
this would make me, perhaps,
a brighter angel.