Thursday, August 8, 2019

It may be that what we want
and what we need
exceed perceptions,
are glitched into obscurity
by the recurrent insecurities
of our characters.

Am I good enough?
Am I a failure?
These are useless preoccupations,
Let go.

Sometimes in walking and watching a fine day unfold, I stumble.
Tests of physical coordination perplex me.

Last night I sat in a dark room, listening to the wind
run through the studio,
pushing against paper paintings,
passing through the glue bottles,
fussing over tabletops.

Later, I made ink from Japanese charcoal.
Crushing tree with a stone against glass, I passed water and ash through a cloth,
stirring in white vinegar,
drop by drop.
The ink looked thin, malnourished, a flop.
I stopped.
Today the grey of yesterday turns black,
back to char, usable if a little gritty.

The cardinals, male, have been singing quite a lot this morning.
One sweet fellow accompanies snare-brushed sounds
found around the intersection at the bottom of the hill.
It's a good day for a song,
with long cooler hours ahead.