Siobhan Casey



Blue strokes
spring water, quench land,

the poised hand whispered over paper,

-such wild imperfection-

shedding the self, the day,
the shadowed thought.

The brush shudders, shades, raises
landscape to relief,

a world whose ashes scatter gray, whose
blood runs crimson, cool,

distilled from the rippled throb of vein. 

Wind falls, branches shift, scent of
apples drips,

(exposed, the wrist knows all
dimensions of the senses).

No answers here, only an orchard,
a season, and the breathing
contours of the line-

a small repose in the daunting
                          place of white.