It's a still-life of all things
artistic, the way the fronds deck
the ceramic plate, the way the
wall-hangings decorate the
frame. And I can't do a thing
about it until December again.
As a still-life, granted, nothing
moves, but so much is in action.
Turmoil. The wedging source of
paint in pursuit of a verb, of doing
something, anything at all.
A bird doesn't wish to stay in
place for fifty years of anything,
even if only painted in a still-life
watercolor, an umbrage of being
imagined, some other time and
place. I make-believe a walk with
you, shooting films of newer scenes
that take flight before me; of things
imagined, and better painted dreams.