Breath of a Centaur
My painting,
Breath Of A Centaur,
moves freely,
gathering itself into form.
It has its own frequency,
it has its own breath.
The marks assemble themselves,
consciousness made visible.
I move with the paint.
By invitation, I make a mark,
score and trace a line.
And through my attending,
a field opens up,
and time dissolves into remembering.
The Centaur’s breath as mine.
The Centaur’s breath as yours.
The breath of inanimate forms
and of all imagined worlds.
The breath of the unknown,
the unforgotten,
of veiled deceptions
and of truths.
And although too limitless to paint—
the very naming of it
becomes an alchemy, in and of itself.
Canvas becomes vessel —
and the vessel holds the breath.
My gratitude also,
just for it being so
certainly mine,
and possibly yours.
And now the vessel holds all the gratitude of the cosmos.
— We are limitless, audacious.
The work must find meaning in the world:
If I were a god,
I would have it awaken the memory of our goodness.
As a god —
I can dance on the moon,
and have my tears fall,
as the rivers and streams
around me.