Seasons

left to right and repeat again, a trail, a path, the way laid out. a willow among the trees paints blazes first white like porcelain, soft to the touch and inviting demarcation. a whip of branches, spatter painting, back and forth a frigid dance of argentine then blues, a playful verdant tickle through meadow and valley, until the willow falls quiet and outlines a million leaves with brown, a filling of brilliant red and orange. she drops the brush and closes her eyes, a final black. her tears water hope and hope is another empty canvas.

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