By chance they rise from the dull green floor
dappled, pulsating columns
uninterested in my measuring gaze
their stray arches lowering beneath
Autumn’s bright blue dome
How can I paint a leaf
when bunches of leaves pulsate
like cicadas in the sun’s full heat?
While I paint they shrivel, burn
they don’t care –
aristocrats that can’t see
begging for recognition.
All I can do is throw it down
get to know what I’m trying to see
admit failure, right here, right now.
I know if I stay for a hundred years
I won’t get close
to what this is
to knowing what they are.
Nor are they concerned –
they have no voice
but what we manufacture in our thoughts.
They’re indifferent – cut them down
their columns will grow in our minds
until we can’t look up
without being blinded
by leaves, pulsating
in the constant breeze