He is wearing a smock.
The table where he sits
The paper on the table is shiny and wet.
The paint in the porcelain cup
Is wet and bright and cool.
He is timid at first.
A single finger touches paint,
Draws back quickly, waits awhile.
At last he takes a dab.
And after that he smears.
A forest scene
Is spread in green
Across the slippery page.
There are trees with mighty trunks
And greenish rivers feed
Their lovely twisted roots.
Rich Accetta-Evans
