Alba

A flat white sky; no wind.
Blank page; not a scroll or squiggle.
Canvas unprimed; no ochre outline.
Doorway; no one can find the key.
Entrance to the underworld?
Fringed curtain: clear sign.
Ginger-roots: not one without knobs.
Havarti hosting flourishing mold.
Ice sheets plain as card stock.
Juniper branches: crosshatched on the hill.
Know all malaise by its prescience.
Little girl with the crooked bob, come in.
Mittens go on the hutch, galoshes by the sill.
No one here cares how long you stood there.
Oatmeal cookies instead of thumb in the mouth?
Patience is a virtue, yes, but
quarrelsome stoics are a different issue.
Revising yet again: but who doesn’t have to?
Stop bemoaning what’s in the filing cabinet.
Take delight in the sharpened graphite,
unopened boxes of color ready for use.
Vellum or plain paper: ecru’s nice too.
What did the old masters see in their dreams?
Excerpts are fine: sometimes the whole enchilada
yawns too large, looms like a monster whale.
Zen is your best friend; and raking the garden.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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