a stroke of the brush...
the melatonin layers and suns
imbedded into the skin.
another brush… another stroke
and winter tangles with the snow
in hair that melts on shoulder blades.
The mirror is a silent judge and witness.
A smile of wisdom from within.
the lonely footprints
in the dirt of the road
and shadows in the clothes
a broken brush…
a smudge across the canvas,
a breath of wind across the fields,
deserted, left behind
that disappears in far perspective.
I hold the brush; he’s leaning on the cane.
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