This one kind of feathers,
rows of color, a regularity of lines,
ideal for wind or the sense of motion.
This one is broad, blunt.
Wide, powerful strokes.
I used it a lot.
Must be psychological.
This one is oriental.
Thick, with a narrow point. Pliable.
The maker of movable lines.
And this one? Thin. So thin.
A wisp of a brush. In the mess of my paintings,
you barely see it’a lines. But they matter.
This one has a slant to it. I will be honest,
I have not figured out how to use it
to its best effect. Still, I experiment.
And of course there is the paper.
Coarse? Smooth? Textured?
Or canvas? Or metal or furniture or glass or…
So many choices. Mix and match.
There are paintings to paint.
Worlds to create.
Brush stroke by brush stroke,
About this poem
Some days I am empty. So I pick one of my photographs and write to it. This is one of those.