The Artist.

By Saadhana S

fine morning, it was- for the artist to

let her mind flow onto that canvas

her palette, still caked with the jet

blacks and crimson lakes of the past

with it laid the strokes of mauve,

yet those colors couldn't have lived without

the warm water that washed up

everything that grew upon it

where'd it flow than in a stream?

spikily stood out the strands of

once, a pristine and perfect brush, yet

she hadn't picked it first.

all that she could paint with were the

blacks and the greys, but not of lakes

eyes and knuckles sore, she simply

dropped the brushes and everything else

but saved the water alongside her

little something that wasn't so little-

fine morning, it was.

By Saadhana S