I find you this morning
In the swirling
Slosh-around
Brushwork.
In the strokes you always and never intend,
Your whimsical touch-noodlings, arm-sweeps,
glue-gloppers and hand-wiggles.
Wrapped-around, Pushing in, Swipe to left
Jamming right, Curled around and up and down
and rolling in the colors, and then
splash-landing on the canvas.
Or a careful application, a calculated jab
Maybe here, or over there, or, surprise!:
A large orbiting gesture, slung 'round and dotted with a dabble-point.
Or the layers of paintings under paintings under paintings,
Like history, often covered with a glaze, often glowing to the surface.
I miss our laughing--turning--plucking--playing--strumming--praying-- jump-around--windy dances.
And yet, on this sun-dappled Saturday morning, Avery,
I find you.
Smiling,
In the brushwork.
