strawberry jam coated his mouth
like sugar crystals shining in sun
while riding the gauzy wings
of an angel’s sweet breath.
the day of folded sorrow and doubt
yet untold but remembered
receded like flood waters
slowly diminishing,
while still sustaining orange fire
and pure energy of intention,
their turbulence and turgid current
unmasked and nakedly open,
somehow now rolling
in music’s sweet time
down cliffs of gentle maple
and birches where each moment
we’re alive in presence
is linked in rhyme.
sixteen artists convened on a Sunday
around tables and sandwiches
to talk of their love
of creation and color.
trees, clouds and human visages
in sun and in darkness
imagined themselves portrayed
in cracked oil on canvas
between rectangled wood
for strollers and sighted
to gaze upon and take
as nourishment like jam
or good cheeses
on thick crusted bread,
as olives and garlic danced
in the sacred light yellow
as pooled melted butter
on a field of grass
among bold vibrant
sculptures.
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