Painting fresh leaves, leaving
the easel and the brush leaning
against the hard wood of your piece
titled: ‘Portrait of a lost lover’

The blackbirds of black paint
dotting the apex, as she,
the mountain, tries to swallow
you and the sky,

What flows in her, as she
wonders the trees which
come to pigment her body?

Fingers greenly grow roots
tight on the surface, but
none quite reach the silhouttes
of her wet dark cells,

It is best perhaps to leave
certain cracks denied. Easier
to scale the face in the naked
canvas, than give form for
the already in basalt encrusted.