The Canvas

BY CAROLE NICHOLS

It sits on a easel near a glass wall,

To catch the best of the morning light;

It's been painted over and over again,

Capturing the artist's changing sight.

It's been a scene of bright yellow's and blues,

In a valley of green where the flowers grew;

And the sky was golden with springtime's sun,

So fresh to behold, you could feel the dew.

It's been home to sprites and fairies,

As they danced and played in the forest deep;

Their faces slashes of laughter and joy,

And enchanted places you find in sleep.

It's been covered with oceans capped with foam,

Misted waterfalls, rivers and silver pools;

It's shown the mountains magestic crags,

Capped with white snow where the eagle rules.

Yet, too, the colors have been dark, haunting,

The colors of a storm at it's raging peak;

Swirled and confused, smeared and blurred,

Running together, not a sight for the weak.

It once held a portrait of a face in agony,

Mouth frozen, gaping, in an endless scream;

A self portrait of the artist who cried,

Silently trapped in a hell-filled dream.

The canvas sits there, now, barren and blank,

Awaiting inspiration from life's changing soul;

And for the artist, who's absent and searching,

For the picture to come that will make her whole.