My painting will have no surface.
You will enter it by light.
But the sheet of color seems still
the moment refracted sun
twirls cloud mass and the petals,
dapple accidents on crabapples'
wet black trunks. Light enters, richly,
cow-green fields a lake rises to meet.
There's no distance, sundown finches
wash our street in the song of rain.
In the shades there's no tomorrow
but we let it fall on us uncreated.
I have had a canvas but never a brush.
DOS MADRES PRESS