Cleaning Brushes

The smell of mineral spirits fills the air
as you clean them, a ritual of sorts,
a washing away of old colors
as you dip them again and again in the acrid liquid,
work the black bristles with your fingers
and rinse them again.

The paint never comes out easily,
as if staying on the brushes
is a form of eternal life,
that allows them to taint and tint
the next painting.

It is a ritual, this cleaning,
unpleasant and bothersome, but necessary
if each painting is to be it’s own child,
it’s own life, and so you work the bristles
and lay them out in the rain,
letting God finish the work
that you have begun.

About this poem

At times, we need to let the residue of the past wash away in order to be fair to the possibilities of the future.

The picture was taken on my back porch early yesterday morning.

Be well, Travel wisely,

Tom