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prairies & old poems



My exhaustion now faded,
as one strong storm suddenly passed,
I seek refuge in
the rich oil paints 
that stain my fingers, 
 somehow
thicker than blood.
Carefully - and yet
not carefully in the least -
I lock my soul in there
into the crevasses of the
 fine sterile white canvas-
  finally some parts of me concrete;
  finally some rigidity & sureness
as the layers & layers
hover silently, 
waiting, 
drying with
the passing of these
numbered days.
Walking through these fresh
autumn sunsets, I believe
surely I will live in
these careful scenes 
which I paint so eloquently
 so carefully
when death finally comes
to take me 
at the end.
One can dream the afterlife in question
should be so fluid, 
so
dreamlike, 
so freeing.

For there is no map here:
only the rustling of the yellowed leaves -
gentle & calming,
praying to an absent god
that the storm
may not return;
as surely it will - must - someday.

But meanwhile I will flutter
through the calming serenity
building and building always the layers
in order to protect the fragile soul
before those wretched winds
roar back once more
with their quiet tempting aching
saying, fail, fail,
 and fail once more.