The canvas, open thighed
with birthing pains begs
my brush to be its midwife.
Inadequate but inspired
I deliver the newborn
with strokes of paint
across pallor’s cheek.
Rooted in burnt umber,
a trunk sprouts leaves of gold
and peach nippled fruit.
When my muse speaks
it is finished, I feel relief,
but in this brief respite
I hear the first moans
calling from another womb.
Comments
I think you captured the nature and primitive feeling these canvases are imbued with.
painter's theme...
So well done Susie ~