Expression 

I think of you
as springtime
breathing life into me,
the blossoms
of your cherry tree.
I ponder this
with apologies to Neruda.
 
Words of poets long dead
invade my private moments
and leave my inspiration
dependent.
 
Roiling tempests
of a lexicon not yet invented,
blue and black
cerulean - above my head;
the only suited
to paint your portrait
leave my canvas vacant of life
my brush
   poised
      paused
stilled by inadequacy.
 
So I  paint you
           I please you
with my fingertips
  and with my open mouth.
Eyes reflect words unspoken,
my body in motion
defined in subtle brush strokes
of Namaste 

© 1998