Grabbed the biggest brush with the finest tip.
On the white paint left on her sullied palette,
Randomly draped tiny flecks which she called 'stars.'
Pointillism, realism, impressionism ---
Nary a term to describe this portrait
In her mind it was a mere picture of wanting,
Of longing for things painfully distant, yet beautiful.
She painted them fast--- little white dots converging,
Yet from one another kept an acceptable distance.
She wanted to finish the picture before she forgets
Her vision that night, a mental picture of inexplicable ardor.
It's going to be a masterpiece, she thought,
Still filling the lifeless textile with pristine speckles.
It's through. But somehow she sensed emptiness.
Staring at the magnum opus of constellation,
She felt nothing but an unwarranted exhaustion.
Ah, the twinkle! she blurted in discovery
But how, just how do you paint a twinkle?
It's the air that's make them dance, I told her.
She sat down and put the palette down.
You can take that home, she told me,
Looking at the dead canvas she just junked.
Thanks, I said, but I'd rather you breathe on it first. #
photo credit: blackpoolastronomy
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