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The artist ponders names for new colors.
Spinning gold out of straw would be easier
than combining hues to duplicate perfection.
What to call the peculiar blend of orange/red –
that defines the horizon as the sun sets?
Red and orange, it is both and neither –
Not even vermilion  describes the richness.
Sunrise and sunset, midday and gloaming
spent in silence, watching, peering at creation,
evidence of imagination far greater than her own.

Unwilling to cede victory, she smears and daubs
her paints across the canvas she had prepared.
Her brave exterior folds, collapsing into sullen fear.
She is not who she believed. She is not greater
than, but lesser.  More worthy of stumble
than saunter.  Her silhouette, once stark,
distinct against the bright sky, disappears
like smoke, dispersed by a random breeze.
Her voice that once sang by heart the
sensuous lyrics of self-delight, is distorted,
mumbling only redundant, disjointed scraps
of what was once lilting and lusty,
cunning and clever,  filled with artful alliteration.

At once she is upon her knees,
her common reality apparent at last.
She knows what others have always known.
Lifting her arms to her head,
she removes the silver pins
that secured her abundant tresses. In the
tangled curls that fall, she sees for the first time
the streaks of white among the darkening

She rises and puts away the paints,
the brushes and the canvas,
folds the easel’s spindly legs,
and breathes.  A sudden light
illuminates the darkest places
where she lived.  She had been
accustomed to the dark, a stranger
to the light.  All the coveted colors
she would have called her own, dance
before her newly opened eyes.
They are free, there for the giving,
and so, released at last, is she.


Ah, me!  Poly has taken me down another winding road, marked with many blind turns.  So be it.  May you all, my Gentle Readers, be filled with the abundance of enough. . .