“The Pastels, the Liquids”
The pastels, liquidity in the glass are given sight
In purest motives from the richest reds,
Blues, or better yet, outrageous magenta shreds,
Cobalt indices within the tincture. The slight
Is, for the moment, intended, frozen, then released
In lucid translucent turbulence held captive by seals
Between the wards as ever-churning shapes reveal
The signs of bailiwick again. The artist, her fragile ovulation, speaks
In stains, then thoroughly intoxicating flames, and then is gone. She’ll appeal
To hearts in refraction, a natural reaction in framed compassion.
Stationary, held inert, or in the running freely, stasis rationed
Rarely if at all, she invites movement along with zeal
Induced by pure delight in candlelight in the dance
Of elvish fingertips upon the eyelids, no smile left to chance.
…art at bottom by Art Adams…