In the hermetic hours,
a painting hand she has
to wipe away the misunderstanding,
reveal the misery that can’t be told.
Brush held in trembling hands
a heavy brow, a heavier breath,
she floats, she is a traveler with a wish,
while the canvas is a sponge
to absorb the fog and sweat of years;
those days when nobody ever told her
that she had a painting hand.
Worries hang from the windows
to her heart and belly
and I am the finch on the sill:
the one that overflies
the messy vessel of her room,
that other stowaway,
the one who keeps an eye on her.
I record her movement as the expression
of a clandestine destiny.
My light feathers never burdened
by interest or fear, I am free to see
she has a painting hand.