No brushes, no sketchbook, no easel…
he steadies himself on the fence posts
and shuffles his feet along the familiar path
each step its own small battle.

He struggles to reach the clearing 
where the dead, hollowed trees stand.
Their silhouettes are like a Rorschach 
inkblot interrupting the horizon.

He sits on a familiar log, catches
his breath and remembers what he has
captured here. How each brush stroke 
could open his soul. God, what’s next?

“Open that thermos and pour a coffee.”
He drinks in silence. The day awakens.

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