BLEEDING
"It's still wet,
don't touch yet...
beautiful isn't it?"
"why there's red,
there at the side of the tree,
and the water surrounding it?"
Smiling, she looked at him,
"I don't know. I am just a painter,
and I just painted your tree."
He looked at her.
Puzzled, he asked,
"is the tree bleeding? but trees don't have blood,
do they?"
"Why are you asking me?
It's your tree,
I'm just a painter..."
"You really are weird Legna," Joe said.
Smiling he examined the painting once again.
"So, I am the man standing beside the bleeding tree. And that,
bleeding tree is mine... Hmmm doesn't make sense."
"Yes, it doesn't make sense indeed,
it doesn't make sense"
Smiling,
she looked at the work of her hands,
standing beside Joe.
This is a poem for my first painting, Bleeding - oil on canvass.
