The dying breath of a cold wind
Painted by the artist, on a long
It wasn’t right.
Where was the grey,
And a tinge of white, in the curls of air?
It didn’t sell,
Painted on a humid evening,
This time, the cold was
An evidence of the detailed snow.
Creation and Criticism;
An argument that didn’t matter;
A chilling sense of inadequacy;
Strokes of two horse-hair brushes,
A riot of shades,
Deposited the next day.
The night? – got colder.