To be as still as flowers in a vase –

Ones captured on a canvas bare and white,
Sprung forth by a Renoir’s or O'keefe's delight,
Delighting me when I see face to face
The painted hues and light imagined first
In frenzy, and slowly then crafted,
Created through practice, then mastered
Through weeks and years, repeated and rehearsed –

Oft comes, it’s said, from quiet in a life.
My serene certainty comes while racing
Through the woods of life, with stumbled pacing,
Crying as branches lash across one eye.

My stillness springs forth, with largesse,
With joy and sorrow, from distress.