Artists pinch the tube sparingly,
daubs of paint on a hungry pallet
thinly dispersed by careful strokes.
Spare not want not--divine advice.
But the tulips I saw today were spared no color,
the golden grins, a billion stars exploding on a pasture
of bottomless earth. Such effusion--
dispensed by generous fists, omnipotent palms and fingers
crushing tubes of acrylic bliss,
squeezing as though the source would
never run dry. Pools of infinite hue
saturating crepe petals, field upon
field, air redolent with surplus scent.
Where is this frugal deity?
Wherever did this ascetic spirituality originate?
Surely, the Universe does everything to excess.
end
michael bogar
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