Mother's Cyan Hands are Not My Own

The shade on the edge of moonlight

falls through her eyes and stays there,

through her brush and fades there

on the canvas,

on the page,

transforming harsh and dismal white

And maybe with the help of hope against the rage,

she might just get it right

Maybe with the help of lemon-gold and sage,

she might just get it right...

But the ink cannot encompass

the way he sings Sinatra,

or that ever trembling mantra

in her bones,

in her heart,

that fear of being but never being fleetingly "enough"

All as Grandma's lapis legacy grants a wink to art,

attempts to color doubt with love

All as that fetching hollow hue lies waiting in the dark,

attempts to color doubt with love...

And distressed acrylics cannot grasp

a snow-tint whispered sight,

or cold water struck hard with starlight

to the horizon,

to the sky,

but perhaps they grant a clear-sung thought

Maybe beauty can halfway meet her yearning azure eye,

and falling short still means a lot

Maybe doing is in the trying and not in perfection's cobalt lie

and falling short will mean a lot...