Alone in the Studio

There is no one here.
You, a dozen half-finished projects.
The paraphernalia of an artist.
Brushes. Thinner. Rulers. Pens.
Old canvas being made new
with a fresh coat of gesso.

On the walls and on the table,
not yet hung, are newer canvases.
Bright. Small. Reminders of the most recent
steps in your journey. Some are bright.
Others discordant, as dark as your mood.
The best are hopeful.

For that is what propels you,
the surety that there is always light on the other side.
A faith once blind, now proven by a life hard-lived,
a life that has become younger as you have grown old.
Surprised by love and a God who will not let you alone,

You pick up a brush. You dip it in thinner,
and then into the paint.
There is hope to create here in this empty place.
Hope to discover and send out again and always
again.

About this poem

I spent some time in the studio yesterday, but I did not paint. I will spend some more time there today, and I will.

Tom