Paint Can

Paint Can

Into a can of paint,
I leapt.

The colors—a museum of Monet, Angelo, Chagall


I was standing dripping with delight.

“More, more, more”
I bellowed.

A paint brush, invisible,
delicately swiped itself across the sky.

A fountain of colors
changed before my eyes.
I stood 

holding the ground.

‘No,’ it was the ground holding me
so I would not lose sight of

The Artist’s Splendor…

dripping, dripping, dripping. 

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