Nights float by, blending into days. Pastels on the Earth's surface, blurring. Mountains wash over waves, trees snap, Red spills slowly over dense forests In midday suns as rain cleans the canvas.
Canvases cleared for the next artist, Perhaps for the next cans to knock over Or another paint brush to fall off the shelf. A bristle, at least waiting for a bristle. Unattended and unacknowledged, The linen becomes the breeze.