His hand was only a hand

With veins that rose and fell

Like gently rolling waves

A dip and a swell

Giving life to all within

Beneath the water and his skin.


His brush was only a brush

With bristles short and soft

Like freshly growing grass

Subject to the windy wafts

Of springtime growing new

Filling in the lines he drew.


His eye was only an eye

With so much more behind

Like the shade of green

That bends and winds

Beneath the skin inside her wrist

Deeper still before a kiss.


His art was only art

With confines of space and wood

Like the forest she explored

In the freedom of childhood

Filled with shadows and light

An expanse of elation and fright.



copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

Photo Credit: Elspeth Diederix