Is this how painters try and plunge the world
into line and shade and hesitation
committing themselves to the ineffable,
unerasable and solid flesh, a slow appreciation
that builds a moment piece by pace
with a surer formula than luck?
So the circular becomes impassable
each lush hint seems to duck
behind the moon that captures still
a scene for monumental time
ripe rind, globed fruit more edible,
its egg-white glaze sublime.
Knowing it isn’t art but metaphor,
that life leaps not on nor off the page,
still I’ll hold a single second back
and allow mind’s fruit to age.