Finding a Match
A stack of paintings, mostly finished
in the color of reverence,
lean against the worktable.
A pair of frames, gilt with gold,
products of the Victorian age,
lay empty, waiting for the work
not started, unsure when, or if
their particular magic will find a match.
About this poem.
A love poem. A poem about inspirations. How? Love is a very particular kind of magic, just like art.
The picture was taken in my studio yesterday.