The Artist

For her, the paintings move like falcons’ wings:
their direction, beating movement and color schemes
guided by swift strokes of bristled feathers,
shaped and crafted to soar through landscaped dreams.

Today, the sky has been lit with ocean blues
and greens that own no top or bottom end;
the clouds are passed beneath, leaving the empty
space where private castles can suspend.

But as breath once lost from falling to no bottom
returns, an eye looks back to the canvas below:
solid, without flight and inspiration,
an empty mind resting beneath sheet, on pillow.

The drawbridge shuts as the paint grows cracked and dry,
and the falcon folds it’s wings, too tired to fly.








©Shelley Marie 2012