A few small paintings have not made it to walls or storage yet,
lingering on the table, waiting for measurements and cataloging,
waiting for a name, a category, something to set them apart
and give them reason to be claimed when now,
hidden away, no one wants them.
About this poem.
About paintings. About not hiding your lights under a bushel. Too often the very things we hide are the things that make us shine brightest if we could only trust them.
The painting is one of mine, “Christ in the Chaos”.