Karen McPherson
PAINTING BLIND
Eyes closed I’m loving this little brush.
Running its tip from chin to ear then down
across an upper lip, and back again across
a lower one.
Blind in the blind, I can taste the pigments:
licorice I’ll be laying down for line; sharp
flecks of mica for the yellow chatter; duff
and sphagnum for the soft underside of things.
I’ve stretched a canvas taut from branch to
branch. A screen to hide behind. A place
to listen from. A way to catch a feathering
of leaves, a liquid song. A vanishing.
My breathing fills with sail as all around me
shy ones flit from their thickets, flutter and
swoop. And finally alight.