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