Emma

A painter of religious scenes, she dabs around a glaze, a thirty-year-old dream, regards the work she’s honed, never wise in this game, to think it’s set in stone, in yellow days of sunbeams, she even feels the same, images not what they seem, the canvas lets her roam, a sketch of wooden nails, in many ways she's gone, a matchstick in the sea, bobbing without a name, floating for eternity, work's too hard to own, the pull of certain days, in this ocean town, her body cries for relief, deep brown eyes are crazed, her mind is never easy, she nails another frame.