bleeding color into clear
as do we all; all of us
into one another. Whether
poison or beauty, into jars
murky or crystal clean: we drip
our paints together.
When the jar turns inky dark
my son grips it with small hands
(but we are all clumsy
with forgiveness) and
dumps the water in a sink,
refills, and starts again.
There is a blue stain
in the yellow paint pocket
carried by an innocent brush
to smear a scar on paper;
it cannot be undone.
I dab the yellow with a towel
and it is pure again. But
the towel is thrown away
and the paper saves the stain.
And my own soul, murky
with selfish poisons: does He dare
drip this into His oceans?
Or can His son dip his brush
into my jar, film rolling backwards
to absorb my inky sins
and deposit them in
some unspoken place?
Or pour me out in Heaven’s sink
and drain me into Hell; only let me
be clear and start again.
August 2019
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