Slipping Into Canvas
Dripping from my fingers
like the morn’s first rays,
colors and hues echo
ochre morning sun.
One stroke up
another down.
My breath catches in the
darkness of my throat.
Thinner fills the house with
strong bitter air
like a summer breeze
to my painter’s heart.
My eyes unfocused on canvas
seeing not the whole,
but, another world
known only to me.
Shutting my eyes
I slip into canvas.
Feeling the gentle brook.
Smelling the lemon grass.
It is here,
that my soul meets me
face to face.
(c) Susan Elliott
Do you have a hobby that releases your inner spirit?
Dripping from my fingers
like the morn’s first rays,
colors and hues echo
ochre morning sun.
One stroke up
another down.
My breath catches in the
darkness of my throat.
Thinner fills the house with
strong bitter air
like a summer breeze
to my painter’s heart.
My eyes unfocused on canvas
seeing not the whole,
but, another world
known only to me.
Shutting my eyes
I slip into canvas.
Feeling the gentle brook.
Smelling the lemon grass.
It is here,
that my soul meets me
face to face.
(c) Susan Elliott
Do you have a hobby that releases your inner spirit?
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