HARVESTING ART 

  

--because of Paul Cézanne 

  

Well earthed 

the paintings tossed into the orchard 

ferment. 

wind sharp as branches, 

dust and mold drunk on oils, 

thick leaves exhaust their greens, 

sometimes fruit expires  

and then one afternoon, 

the artist returns, 

harvests her work, 

scarred and colorful, 

wind injured and wonderful, 

takes them inside, 

fills empty stomachs. 

HERE IS THE CHALLENGE:

 

Walk through the palace of no return, 

spread a thread across the sphere, 

break one rule everyday

and open the gate to the kingdom 

of hail and large stones. 

 

Early Monday 

blue air blue ice blue wind 

time enough to avoid the mob scene of shadow.

Grass lifts its face to the sun 

 

Can gladness be murder? What is fun? 

A force to wind. A rush to run.

White haired stalks of winter grass:

 

Done. 

Michael H. Brownstein