by Christos Polydorou

2017-04-06 12.46.13 (1)
I am feeling so natural this spring, although
I cannot
grow flowers,

I take to the copses,
and the parks,
and walk between houses, among

abundant sunlight, and I take
of flowers

with my phone, and it fills me
with some traditional glee,
not so

ancient, perhaps
circa the sixteenth?
seventeenth century? origin:

Netherlands? Certainly: the men,
very handsome,
with their pointy beards,

and easels, standing by beds of tulips,
painting every parrot,
every yellow outline,
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of every red petal,
as fine
as fabric. Like them,

I do the same, but I’d be
too intimidated to set up
an easel

in rougher
of London,

so paint quick: I tell my hand,
paint fast: my soul tells me,
paint focused: my eyes inform me,

paint oblivious: my mind

Paint singularly: Self asks us.
Paint uniquely: God sings to us.
Paint beautifully: Nature reflects us.

Paint triumphantly: the Universe
strings, to us. Paint
happily: Time distills

in us.
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