Feel the rough textured

Canvas.

It feels empty.

Just close your eyes and feel it.

Without even glancing at the canvas,

It feels white

Like fresh, untouched snow

or a pile or table salt.

Feel the layers of

Dried oils

On the pallet.

Its texture varies like mountains and valleys

As you grace your fingers

Against its grooves.

It is not empty.

It is quite full.

You can feel its fullness,

All its reds and blues

And oranges and greens

And violets,

All roaming free like a saffari.

Or a museum.

The colors are immobile,

Yet,

Their wild aura still exists.

You feel its wildness

Just as you feel the canvas’s coma.

Soon the two will meet.

Soon, the vivid dream will meet the silent night,

And from it,

You will create.