The Canvas
What compels her constant motion?
Is it her fear that I, the canvas,
will turn gray
if she should ease into stillness?
Who am I to reside in color?
In white against red?
She stands
and inches back until
she is all the way down the hallway,
tilting her head.
There is paint on her face.
I do not know what I am now,
but whatever color is on her nose
I hope I am.
Her eyes are on me.
If only she could look at a human
the way she looks at my rectangular self.
With such intensity, such concentration.
That person would feel so
loved.
I take the questions away
and she answers in speedy blinks.
Her eyes are tired.
I hear the blues of the ocean
turning against me.
The sky is gray,
the waves are gray,
There is gray all over her face.
I was lost,
but now she has
that brush is
in her hand,
holding it tight,
making me still.
I’m a pretty place.
Soft,
but there is only gray.
Can’t she let go
of our soul?
If she lets go,
I go
on and on.