She has spread canvas across
the long side of the shed,
and sits on a low stool, washing blue
over white weave.
She likes plein air, the humid day
cut by breeze, sitting close to the blue,
peripheral vision boxed by blue.
This first coat, the primer,
a blue sky, streaked with promise
of nimbus, bird, visitations,
is still empty, awaiting the dream state.
She works the weave,
each day adding, and subtracting,
layering, scraping, applying colour.
The waking, unannounced,
adheres to no timetable, chronology,
calendar or deadline; line upon line,
share upon shape, until closed eyes
snap open, brush lowered,
the work completed (if a work is ever completed),
the sleep, the coma, the alpha state dissipating,
the dream now alive, and breathing
there, outside herself.