"it's funny how things work"

the painter
searches her canvas
for one drop,
it matters not
how minute,
of soul cleansing ecstasy.
she swirls her brush
in a palette
of hope,
jumping from blue
to black to green,
and spreads her
reconnaissance
into fissures of a pre-pocked
surface,
the pain of revelation
searing her eyes,
her lips,
the tips of fingers
on her right hand.

a chinese flautist,
navigating a creek bed
six-thousand miles away,
wipes yellow acrylic
from the mouthpiece
before he begins to play.
confused, he looks
at his hand,
the tips of his fingers
tingling with electricity,
as he prepares his breath
for a song
penned in remembrance
of his sister,
a painter,
who passed one year ago
today.