She dreams of half squeezed tubes of oils,
the scent of turpentine, and the loose, paint smudged shirt
draping her body.
She dreams of the vacant stare of the canvas,
waiting on the easel, the perfect light slanting, and
the thumbnails scattered on the speckled table.
She dreams of the handthrown pot, bristling with brushes,
the pallet knives, the rags and scraps of yesterday’s news,
like leaves waiting to turn and fall.
She dreams of the pallet perched on her arm like a hawk, fierce
and unafraid, raises the loaded brush, takes a deep breath,
then wakes up and goes to the office again.
Hah, the falconer needs more non-office time. Harrier, now is that a real term? Must google that.