A Good Washing
A single brush falls to the canvas on the floor.
Falls into the dirt. Only for a moment perhaps,
or, if I do not see it fall, perhaps longer.
Sooner or later, I will see it. I will pick it up.
Knock off the dust. If needed,
I will rinse it off. Clean it. Dry it,
I won’t say I am clumsy, but at times things do fall.
At times I miss them for days, for longer
the brushes lay on the drop cloths.
But, eventually, we are all found.
Brushed off, washed. made clean
and ready for the work of painting.
About this poem
A poem about painting. About failing. About always starting again and the things in life waiting to be created.