There is a winter interim of the heart
when a million white butterflies descend
from ripened cocoons in the sky,
soundless wings flutter,
cluster into spools of wool
for the weaving loom.
Surrounded by the starkness of white
you search for rainbow colors
only to find an empty, outstretched
canvas upon the easel,
an artist’s paintbrush, a pail of gesso,
your naked hands.
There is a winter interim of the heart,
a jagged juncture of time when you discard
easel and paintbrush,
for the weaving of wool,
the molding of sculptures
steadfast in the evanescent snow.
by D. G. Vachal © 2014
*** Photography by Eugene Dudarev