Learning to paint in France
Cobblestone roads well worn by now. How much so does ancestry burnish down the stone, or how much up, embossing pliant feet?
Here’s where we decide about shoes.
Then those days, crystal pearls on a thread, when it rained outside. Very hard. Like smooth white bone.
When the storm was met by the fabric of grandparent’s woven cloth. Some bundled limbs the fury did not sway.
We followed ourselves into rain.
Discovering pigments right there at our fingertips, all along. No tapping cane to merit the path for feet to scuff.
Who will dare say when all the apples are ripe? Even in winter’s shadow dawn is sweet.
neil reid © october 2012
comments:
and simple thanks to a lady in France
bearly audible 