His hand was only a hand
With veins that rose and fell
Like gently rolling waves
A dip and a swell
Giving life to all within
Beneath the water and his skin.
His brush was only a brush
With bristles short and soft
Like freshly growing grass
Subject to the windy wafts
Of springtime growing new
Filling in the lines he drew.
His eye was only an eye
With so much more behind
Like the shade of green
That bends and winds
Beneath the skin inside her wrist
Deeper still before a kiss.
His art was only art
With confines of space and wood
Like the forest she explored
In the freedom of childhood
Filled with shadows and light
An expanse of elation and fright.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Jill Szoo Wilson 