At Both Ends
of the Brush
Bheka Pierce
Out for a tramp in the October wood
The elderly landscape artist asks:
What am I at last if not that bronzed birch leaf
Upon this bough above this brook?
How delicately my ribbed and serrated
Reflection floats upon this limpid water
Darkened by the earlier dead beneath.
Soon I must let go and drop face forward
Into my own image, shattering it
With a ripple, to be borne off by
Autumnal breezes and bottom currents.
As he so thinks, a flutter of
leaves--
Including his own--lift free
like bright
Pigments escaping from his
best painting.
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