Once
and always, whenever
he's contacted—
the little artist—stooping,
blushes
and confesses
true confusion
when inevitably asked
after—such
misapprehended things
as
tools
and a canvas.
Ice—
heat, maybe?
elevation—
compression!
Don't you see? How
a little
bit
of everything
just tends—
to interact
and reinforce
and of course—just dance
with itself
all at once!
when all you're attempting
to make
each day
is just a little
compassion
slathered—as it were,
across the surface
of understanding.
