Without you

I splatter.

I drip. I drop. I spill.

I am paint.

I conform to your will.

With you

I am bold, intense.

I shine.

Or I am quiet and reflective.

But I speak.

My life is a canvas

Ready to be filled.

I am paint...

I yield.

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The Imperfect Gardener

Someone once said, long ago or last week,

that it's futile on a finite and populous planet

to seek a truth, or a finely polished apple,

in the still-life-on-canvas we daily behold,

and by such uncouth behaviour

we are mostly confounded, and fail to grapple.

So we're prisoners here, in uncounted millions,

unable to leap high or fast enough to...

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