The Canvas

The canvas, blank and waiting
sits there in the shadows and the gloom.
Beams of fading sunset light
casts amber color slashes across the room.

Waiting, ready, are the paints and palette.
Brushes, soft plumes of possibility, beckon to begin.
Spilling colors across that snowy blankness
Seems too much; almost a sin.

What if I fail? What if it is no good?
My reaching hands fall back from the brush.
I should be cautious and start very slow.
Surely, I will ruin it if I begin to rush.

Yet, siren like, the blank canvas whispers softly.
The creative winds begin to whirl;
Stirring dreams of what might be -
With just a line, a brush, and a colorful swirl.


---Marilyn A. Hudson, 2015