if i could paint...

if i could paint,

i would use my fingers,

paintbrushes cannot feel

that burnt sienna slithering,

sliding, settling into the grooves

of fingertips and between nails

before marking an impression

on the empty canvas.

i bought a smock and took classes

so i could feel the crushed charcoal

smooth underneath my fingers

and spread on the page

i practiced the delicate touch

and manipulated water to spread color

where i wanted to.

do you not see, my love is not acrylic

it is living water, coal, oil.

i need you to understand why  

i’m not a pristine, empty canvas

i’ve been painted over, discarded even

no spring colors will make an impression

you will see winter grays when my fingers pour

my heart out, squeeze dark colors of my soul.