A quickie for the NaPoWriMo prompt referring to an art form other than writing. The woman in the August Macke painting looks uncannily familiar.
If I could paint
a painter I’d be
but these things are decided
when fingers are still stubby tools
for grubbing in the dirt after earthworms and beetles,
forced to shape themselves to uncompromising ivory keys
to grip skinny slippery pencils
and form symbols of another’s creation.
If I could
but paint is a river
an ocean too glorious and uncontrollable
too close to the rolling weaving
water and wind-swept tableau
of another’s creation.
Words instead tumble and trickle
salamanders from a volcanic pit
to be captured and shaped
before they scuttle back into their secret caves
pinned to a page where they glow
That’s the theory anyway.