One Stroke After Another
Every gesture, however ill-advised
And ill-conceived, brought to life
Something that had not till then existed.
Everything lived in the moment,
Or not at all. Whatever resisted
This movement through time and space
He brushed aside, like flakes
Of dried paint, in the race
To completion. One stroke
Brought forth another stroke,
And so on, until he woke
From his trance, as surprised
As anyone at what he had done.
It was not the finished canvas he prized,
But the way the brush cut like a knife.