The Artist’s Home

I must be careful from which cup I drink.

Preoccupied, often I almost

poisoned myself. When painting I can’t think

of anything but brushstrokes, so engrossed

I put the paint cup to my lips to take

a sip, a whiff of acrylic hits me—

that’s how I know I’m in need of a break.

Grabbing a fresh mug to make honeyed tea,

The trance dissolves, while with a warm gulp I

back away, hoping for perspective plain

and true: checking my composition, eye

examining the hues. Am I insane

to dream so much I almost perish

by a sip from the palette I cherish?

Winter 2022