Beholden to thee,
my charcoal longings, outstretched beyond calendar pages stained with
dusted fingers. My hands, cloaked
My throat inhaling swirling smoke
As, frenzied, I blend shadows into light.
In boxes, I store my charcoals and paints. In cups, I cleanse my brushes.
And as such, I figure
That in a jar, my Maker holds my tears of toil and sleepless sorrow
Sacred as oil, preserved and primed for morrow
Churning orchards from these seeds of ache.