I honor the artist
his broken not broken pieces
I honor the outing of each
crazy not crazy painting
each picture frame
window to soul
stories
of his not his
nor mine but ours
through his hand
his paint-laden knife
I see gold and blue
and disks of white light
the painter the healer
the young framer the night
cobbled street the sky
and café gold and bright
the alchemy of life
wet paint and canvas
the sickle-shaped shards
cut through dark into
light so fierce
it survives reproduction
from canvas to paper
and burns like truth
from the wall