Each work of art is a problem.
They say there is no solution, only abandonment,
and then a final hoping that the passerby
sees a significant something, hears
the right note among raucous pangs.
See the landscape I’m trying
To summon here: the mute ribbons
of sky, gold light pinned above
stolid browns of what could be
trees and bushes, a sullen stone?
My hand moves and so does my desire,
but nothing is framed beyond
Color. However, there is something,
I tell the leaves and the sickly
sky, there is a purpose in their beings,
but they won’t hear it. They just sit
there in sad, anonymous hues.