It didn’t ask to
Be there, the paint
On the canvas. But
Then none of us
When made,
had hand on the brush.
Sculpted from pink
Wax,
allowing light
In others lives. Until
Melted
And clinging in the
Dark,
to the table top.
Ground with a
Fine tool
from quartz.
The edges sharp.
Slowly
Making it art as each
Bead might be handled
In prayer.
They aren’t
Fools
reaching out
And cut by the edges
Sharp.
I think it is
Passion,
passion knows
No future, and visionless
Its blood
colors the
Carved leaves in red.

RLB 5/12/2022