Radiant is each true form:
a paintbrush closed in thought,
a paintbrush of the eyes—
upon entering the sphere
where art is found to live,
borne from the inside out
like an egret by its down,
from gilded dandelions
when the suns of bloom
turn into pith of seed,
and that sublime radiance,
ready to soar—yet stored
within—does it reveal itself
through touch, or
by invitation only?
