A Painter's Process
WRITTEN BY CARLY KIANG
I knew I couldn’t ignore
him, his back against light brown easel,
alone on sun dappled floors.
Light scattered on his smirking face,
by his feet, speckles of red blue yellow
next to a dark brown brush
wistfully waiting for a mellow
blossoming of beautiful lush
flowers that shrivelled in barren desert.
His square shoulders now cast
inky shadows on the cold timber
I couldn’t look at the withered hues,
or the dusty bristles that refused
the whispering of my fingers,
and as I lingered,
blood bubbled and boiled
into total internal turmoil.
By morning we reconciled,
he beamed back radiantly,
and I embraced wild
vibrance back into once lifeless
pigments. With a swish and swoop,
paints melted onto canvas,
ringing flutes and warm cellos,
roaring brass and rolling timpani’s,
fused into a glorious symphony.