the flower’s pain-ache
as its petals burst
is love on a fighting morning

she fights empty space,
pushing back the torrid air
that is heavy as invisible doorways
vacuum-sealed by weighted winds

she goes to work
on her canvas, emptiness,
her uncolored screen waiting
for soft arms of tinting

struggle is real
in the world of beauty,
the committed land that endures
its bleak moments

for another chance
at painted joys, and there,
as witness to growth through death,

are my eyes


(c) J. Celan Smith