Nutshell murmur


I am left without words. That is – hundreds of them swirl inside me,
connect and reconnect themselves to sentences and inner events that will never be born into this world.
But on a surface I call my day – not a single word, nor a fractioned sentence
Can profoundly describe this chattering silence.
I withdraw to painting. Back in my studio, on small pieces of paper, I take notes.
Painterly expressed thoughts of memories, shapes, light and composition.
Rapidly I present a concentrated understanding,
as I grant it with a two dimensional life:
I think of water
Falling dangerously
Or softly meandering across sandy shores
I contemplate the green
How it darkens in the face of approaching storm
Then I remember the clouds,
As seen from above, under the light of the setting sun.
Below words, a nutshell murmur boat is tossed in an ancient ocean
that only I can hear.
I sing to myself as I do all this
And I am

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