Easel Hour

Lisa Russ Spaar

Nothing beautiful as what’s past

our capturing, silver hoard,

so too blue glass, salmon strokes

of the past few minutes

surrendering a dissolving note

in the children’s christening cups

I’ve lassoed on a tabletop scarf

into still life. Solvent and pigment,

things must change.

The cloaked brush risking

the altering stroke, making

feints, falls, everything,

even what I most hope for,

remotely near.

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