the paint splashes across the canvas
the words form in the running hues
I try to catch an image
and it is elusive
A swirl of leaves thrown aloft
by the devil's windy twin
slip & slide amid the sleeping trees
kiss my face with death's familiar scent
a long boulevarde, once tamed
by the hands of man
claimed back not to the Cycles
wildness whispers in my ears
Reaching creeping touchy fingers
limbs & leaves & too much familiar
places its mark on the passing year
kicks up clouds of what has gone before
We work in the Dark; we give what we have. Our Doubt is our passion- our passion is our task, and the rest is the madness of art. -Henry James
