Plant 4

By Robin Dawn Hudechek

As I brush the sky in a swath of aquamarine, I feel
rather than see those pines on hills bending toward the sun.
I see the outline of my eyelashes
more clearly than the edge of sand and sea,
and rocks swirl with foliage into so many clumps like cutouts.
indoors in the brightest light,
pears and pomegranates in a bowl, my still life,
flicker in and out of view like the
weakest light bulb hanging from a chain in my basement
where stairs creep downward, endless as the sable hairs in my brush,
each day growing a little darker, each step into that basement,
a little longer, blank canvases crowding the corners,
their surfaces scrubbed clean
of all but the most natural of longings:
why do I not lift them once more?
Let the colors leap forth like so many impatient dancers,
these blues that flow with the insistence of riverbeds teaming,
yellows that burn on my cheeks, gravelly tans
that shift with every movement of my toes.
What can I do with these colors, these brushes, the abandoned easels
crowding the basement, my bedroom and my dreams,
but turn away from them, my hand unsteady on the rail
as I move upward, afternoon sun dimming on my face,
and shut the door.

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