Ocher Embers
Or What Color Do Ears Get When the Sun Hits Them From Behind?
He paints without a word, a hog hair brush
Is all he needs to carry ocher fields.
They spread for miles and miles and miles, a rush
Of wind bends blades of wheat, three strands congealed.
The clouds above are few and glaucous-winged,
Sunlight diffused like morning through a curtain.
His eyes a sort of soft like sea foam, tinged
A quiet green, decaying bloom in summer.
A plain canvas is richest with his mood,
The fairness of his hair is orange chrome,
The sky instead of pale is Persian blue,
Impasto strokes, along some land-mined loam.
Two ears to catch the early sun, a net.
A match against the box, a cigarette.
About the Creator
Prema Smith
Born and raised in the PNW by my Indian mother and Scottish father. I split my time between the city and the countryside, growing up somewhere in-between.
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