by Annette Snyckers

I miss
the smell of paint,
of turpentine,
fat blobs of colour
squeezed from tubes
with exotic names,
Indigo, French Ultramarine,
Alizarin Crimson, Carmine,
Cerulean Blue, Scarlet Lake,
Indian Yellow, Venetian Red,
their buttery texture
smeared on the palette,
the dipping of the brush,
the slight give of the canvas,
the wetness of it,
the squishiness of it,
putting my finger in it,
and with the slightest touch
softening a line,
standing back for appraisal,
having stains on my face
and rubbing my hands on a rag,
the concentration,
the hallelujah.

It has been too long.


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