One foot forward with brush and palette,
she poses before the white canvas,
waiting for images that cannot be found or thought.
Her room is the white of dawn before color.
She looks out the window at a frozen pond,
unmoving in cold, silver silence.
Her eyes intense, as if she surveys
a map, her face steady and strong,
she stands dressed in white, alone
in the presence of God and the world.
Between artist and easel the air stirs
like air stirring broken cattails on the pond.
Ripe and trembling with new life,
she walks away, herself the art,
leaving her work untitled and unmarked,
the creation within, poem with no words
music without notes, motionless
brushstrokes to heal the soul of an artist.
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