we carefully draw lines onto extremely porous paper
& drag a brush, with the perfect amount of paint
from point A to point B, then on to C.
smudge the shadows in
with black, crumbling charcoal
& rub pastels into the sky
like a bride carefully fixing her face.
the scratch of a pencil plants a tree
& builds a house, fills the windows
with light & the air with smoke.
then it rains...
& the colors & the lines & the shapes & the form
slip & distort from the easel to the ground.
& we curse ourselves for being artists that
stubbornly insist on working with the enemy of water.
but it will stop raining.
we will paint again.
under sun & moon, star & air;
our pictures will come back to life.
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