The hand that shapes the picture
holds a world in brush-stroked paint,
a glimpse of ghosted past, no future
in the black, the white, all swept away
so much debris in an ocean blue,
swallowed by the beast of distance,
and in the calm deeps of eyes,
so like yours and mine, despair.
He sees further, deeper far than we,
remembers things we never knew,
and in the mute, paint-laden brush,
a small life, sings its painted song
a life defined in an alien medium
by the unhealable pangs of loss.