I should
sketch this rather
than write it.

Paint or sculpt it
even; 

odd…the music leaves
no trace, like a lyric and a score do,

I’d sing it,
not unlike a tree.

A sky is all
I need; a bright
wash of light,
sweet lemon near
the edges where
the senses and color
bleed.

I can always paint
this poem, this page, 
this book in my hand,
in my mind looking down
at these steps, 

gazing up
from this world, this pen, 
this brush, this bow, and
I live on.

cc: Chagall 2025