For KL
There’s no realism, just colors on flat surface,
says my teacher. Is this true?
I anoint the paper with a water-laden brush,
slipping over surface. It’s like in Genesis,
telling, retelling a story.
Drops of blue seep and spread – could be sky or sea.
I summon forms with hard graphite –
could be creatures or garden.
Yes, garden. Don’t we need
to dream of garden now?
I paint climbing roses in full blush
with petals vulnerable and open,
with leaves ranging from pale, young green
to rough and blemished.
I place colors on flat surface
during war – a break
from the news, from the story.
It’s so hard to discern lights from darks.
I mix sepia with lamp black
for roots and loam
and try to retain the white of the page
for what glows. A soft cloth
absorbs where paint seeps,
where shadows encroach. Is this hope?
Watercolor by the poet
