— Diane Moomey
lightly glazed with snail trails, illuminates
dust, crumbs, a week’s debris,
glitters on car keys beside the back door.
Finches argue over the last
of the nyjer seed.
Need I reply to these?
Water is waiting:
water and the whitest of paper, thick
and soft, as is the brush
of dark hairs and round handle.
Beside these, fresh pots of yellow
of red, of the bluest of blues
in which might be found the exact russet
of the grosbeak’s breast.
Brushes are waiting.
The sun in the East window
gives light for this.