Saturday, May 30, 2015


I am a box of crayons
That is what she said I smelled like
It is not the first comparison 
I've been told that is what I look like
My closet is a rainbow 
There are layers to my being
I am a painter
I have a palette of many colors
Some are vivid and bold
Some pale and soft 
Hues of dark and dense
or earth and clay
All are rich with texture 
The perfect sharpness 
of the unused tips
are so easily softened
as soon as they are pulled
Out of the box
As they are meant to be
Out of the box
Worn and misshapen 
Out of the box
Broken and paper torn 
Out of the box
Eventually naked and unlabeled 
Out of the box
Identified only by 
the cones on our retinas
Eliminating the need for category 
or organization 
All resting together 
in an old coffee can
Chosen by 
to make a mark 
with the color that comes
from the loveliness 
that calls my name
In its smallest
I am learning 
to trust wonder
Like a child 
to take a chance 
on a nameless chroma
To risk the open ended possibility 
of how the scribble that comes from the mystery piece 
may alter the layers that are already on the paper
Risk turns to trust
One crayon at a time
until the pigmented wax
is rubbed away
Creating image after image
until a new box is needed
And I hope 
when that time comes 
I will open them up
pour them all out
undress them from the very beginning 
and throw away the box