A Brown Canvas Awaits A Season
A brown canvas awaits a season, yet
To be painted on it. And we sat
In conference, playing God,
Conjuring seasons. And an icicle,
Suspended in time, waiting,
For our verdict. On your window.
Seen with eyes the color of hurt,
The icicle’s wait would have all
The hues of yearning. And yet,
For the finicky artists, the wait is
No more than a pause, pregnant
With possibilities of denotation.