If she could think herself sane
She would follow god maps
To clean, tempered planes
Even-keeled, deepening rests.
She’d soften her mind
On grass-fed rains
Her feet pressed
In long settled earth.
Maybe there is a way.
Sometimes the paint
Clings to her skin
Long after the brush
Pushes in.
Perhaps she drenched herself
There in the flecks
Where she can be colors
And rays.
And you wonder how
She imagined.
How she swept through
The taut pain.
If she could breath out
Through the frame
She would sing
And you would believe
She was sane.
© Angela Bigler 2013
photo credit: deflam via photopin cc
Angela Bigler 