Let it Speak

"Let the wind speak / That is paradise" -Ezra Pound

I imagine the wind pushing the grain
To forge the font.
Causing fields to bend and fold.
The feeling of a brush head
Against my face while it
Paints a mountain-
Those small dimples
And imperfections
Of paper.
Ink rolling over rocks.
And clouds made from
Stray and jittering bristles.
A collaborative of
Brushes guided
By a single steady hand.
And us,
Painted men,
Becoming Painters.
Ourselves, overcome
With impulse, driven
By as many
Little gusts
As grains
On the beach.
And in this way,
The world finds color.
A drop in the bucket
Of prismatic
Imperminance.
Drifting like the light bent
Through water, and dancing
On the floor.
As much distorted
From the fish
As the nature of
The thing. Colors.
What wonder.