opaque
I am painting today, near-black bark
and a sash of strewn sand, a mélange
of what fills my heart to its tender brim.
And that brim, how it bows and quivers,
yet obeys the fragile laws that contain it.
My brushes grow stiff, ignored as I am
coaxed by the dull grey wings of winter
birds. January is tintype, a dim remembrance
of an argent day and yet another to come.
But I am hungry for this pallid vista,
glad that it pushes hard against the panes,
a homeless season that groans for hearth
and stew, knows it will never have either.
I will paint the road that brought me here,
the sooty bridges and the river’s iron
spine. There will be a hinge somewhere
that has no rust, a sterling pin that slips
like a starved man into the dole. Light
will bloom in hues stolen from the moon.
When I am done it will seem as if the canvas
is a flecked sky stretched on a frame of opal
bones. You will find yourself drawn within.
© 2010 Dale McLain
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