Lavender Mist

By Henry Crawford

With your pots and paints
on some faraway Long Island.
Lucky Strike burning in your mouth.
Lee on eggshells looking in.
Coffee cans of rubbed-out butts.
Shaky hands spinning away
your limitless craft.
What colour next? What brush?
Sand flies outside waiting.

Drunk on the vapors
of flying paint. Tossing out lines
of falling light. Each space
bearing the weight of its
reckless cargo. Fixing in place
for all time this moment
itself forever gone.

Standing before you as a child
I thought it strange
they let you do this work.
But you had no choice
only the green of sandy pines,
the dull buff of forgotten footprints
and the waves exploding colour
on that Montauk ocean
and all the oceans after that.

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