Poem: Encaustic



The wax,
so full of color
when it lived in candles
is thin and translucent now,
a watercolor wash of faint hues
and texture,
like a frozen sea.

A remnant of instructions lie
half buried,
readable yet incomplete
and useless as unanswered prayer,
yet somehow, beautiful
as if God is whispering his secrets
knowing I am slow on the uptake,
stilled the universe
waiting for me to catch up.

About this poem

Encaustic art is built around melted wax and texture. My son has been doing it for years when he comes here to Vermont to visit. The picture is a piece he did in July that I particularly like, and always suspected had a poem buried in it somewhere.



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