i long to paint
but this unceasing
palette
of dirty whites
of tired grays
that lurks outside
every window
sucks the rich
marrow
from my bones
whittles my winter-
chilled fingers
into skeletal twigs
silvery bark peeling
clumsy
useless
a cardinal briefly
breaks my
monotonous horizon
a small spot
of vivid crimson
I drink thirstily
with tired eyes
I wonder if
could I render
its flight
on white parchment
or is even my
pigment
my life’s blood
grown
too weak
too pale?

© 2021 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved