The Easel

Light splashed this morning on a barren easel

Sketches lay scattered on the floor.

Tubes of paint were squeezed

Into distorted shapes.

The scent of spirits filled the air,

A vase of fresh picked flowers

Struggled to hold up their heads.

An untouched canvas stood

Waiting the artist's brush.

The telephone rings,

The empty easel still waits as

The light fades.