If I paint her
A canvas might seem too limiting, yet it is a perfect way to bound the endless churn of her colors within. Imagine invisible boundaries containing a world, a perfect balance in chaos, each knowing it cannot exist without the other. How do you define the ever changing constant? How do you sketch the tranquil depths of an ocean? What colors would you choose for a wild gale?
The desire to paint her stems from my need to understand what I feel. Not unlike the wonderful women I have known, her sense of being is disarming. There is intent and a certain stability, with the lightness of mist which vanishes in the sun. There is the balance of a drink well served, teasing your sensibilities. There is an audacity of a crass joke, muffled by a sincere whisper.
“Are you the wind, here now and there later?
Or are you the fog that weighs down and stays close?”
“I’m the wind that weighs down, and stays close”
I struggle to express the wonder of her. It is a dance full of vigor and equal strength, contained aggression of a hurricane which moves to strike and does so at that exact moment. Her sharp spoken words have a blunt blow, the best of both worlds. Her smile is honest but with that glint, the best of both worlds. I struggle, for everything is too subtle to draw sharp edges around. I struggle, for even then, the wind has an insistent pull.
She conquers a riddle. She dismisses a puzzle. As decisive as a block print, yet the mingling curiosity of a wave that pushes forth. She is the bird of dawn and twilight. Never the noon, never the night. She is a wildfire in a flame. She is a storm in a thundercloud. As intoxicating as fine wine, I often confuse her with a heady espresso. If I paint her, a single brushstroke would reveal a thousand colors.