Adam's Decision
(Part II)

You paint a still life behind me
as I sit in the garage sale chair
facing the windows.
The Sunday sun wet on the floor,
an open book in my lap.
I look down,
but I'm not reading.
I'm listening to you as you paint.
Its all I listen for,
all I can hear.
The scratching of your brush strokes.

I hear the easel knock,
as you push the brush
against the papers rough skin.
I hear the scratching of the hairs bending,
against the weight of your hands.
As you coax the color to texture and form.
You are making a fruit round,
making it whole,
putting the cleft and baby hair on a peach,
putting wetness in them,
more so with each scratch.

I wonder how you make ripe fruit
from brush hair and colored mud.
That apple you painted was so whole,
and just a little off round,
better than the real thing.
I know it came from somewhere inside you.
It makes me want to reach in
and curl my hands around it,
to clasp my lips around its red skin slowly,
to feel its water wet on my chin and mouth,
and then to look at it,
its inside whiteness glistening wet.
I would eat slowly, savoring each bite.
When I ws done I would save the core
only to plant the seeds,
and my hand would still be molded by the shape of holding it,
when the apple blossoms began to drop their petals.

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