Unconsummated

I spent that whole night dreaming of a painting --
so certain I could capture that particular shade of blue,
the dust of white revealing
the sharp dark curls beneath,
the bar of red, the thin black lines,
the wash of lime to brighten up that corner --
but woke to find the paint was uncooperative:
too thick, too thin, too blue, too green,
too fraught with brushmarks --
I could not smooth them out.

And so, again, I turned away.
Three more unfinished canvases,
their silent accusations leaning
against my heartless easel.
You've been away so long, they chide --
what made you think you could achieve
a union without foreplay?

Art can never be a one-night stand, I'm learning:
it requires concentration, and commitment;
a willingness to make time when there's none,
to cultivate relationship, not just with canvas and with paint,
but with the spirit that guides the brush
and colors all your thoughts until
you glide as one with confidence and grace
onto the canvas or the page
to dance in that sweet rhythmic blend
that only lovers know.