Water Painting

The hand guided the rush of ink from colorless pots --
The pigments, he took from the earth, and as they
dissolve in the madness of swirls, the hand danced with them,
and made a picture seen only by the quickest of eyes --
See? Like a flick of the brush its weakness hued
by colors, its form a sliver of time, and
the face? Alas, I have to see it again. The hand,
unasked, poured the colors once more, ever vibrant,
and this time, the portrait stays, for the waters were still,
and the hand was still, and the birds, the trees -- were
there any? Were the rocks faces or were the faces rocks?

Black and white pixels form a gray, a blank face,
a blur of nameless faces the hand bother not define.
And as my own fingers dip into the pearly touch –
while the hazels gaze – and the soft pair of rosy pleasures,
the waters stir, the eyes look away, a splash, a spurt of liquid,
a pattern’s disturbance and a gasp now louder –

even before the morning, the picture gone replaced by another.

Genarro Pascual