I drag this line, that line across the boundaries
of shape emerging from the brushstroke of learning
to be open, and awakened, and new.
Sharp, dark edge - I want definition, for once,
a harsh divide, a beginning and end,
somewhere to stand and assert, "I know what I am."

But color doesn't move like that, he says,
only the thought patterns of the mental plane,
or the unnatural paths people have carved
into the sides of perfect hills,
or anything we suppose we can control.

At times, I see the world as a contrast between
the linear vision of all the ideas humanity has collected
in the vast, expansive plane of consciousness
that, nevertheless, has its limits,

and all we can never understand, hidden between
lines that never travel in any unwinding way,
but flow in and out of Being and Nothingness
and lead us to a path that pulls us farther and farther
away from our Selves, into the heart of Everything.

In this way, each movement is a poem.
Each hue is a song.
Each dip into water
becomes a drink of release.
Each touch of brush to paper
asks less and less of me,
and more and more of something greater.
Maybe the colors of my heart will always bleed
into everything, will always seep outward
to touch the edges, will absorb
the rainbow of the immensity
I artlessly embrace.

Perhaps this is how we learn
to dance in liminal space.
This is how one might, without trying,
find veridian green in a sunset
and magenta in her heart.
This is how, within and without,
the Dark makes the Light.