Watercolor
Posted on November 17, 2022 by Kevin Neal
how uncertain you move on our paper,
slow and anxious as a hand reaching
out in the dark, like you’re afraid
to creep too far,
that overnight you’ll set, submit to your
belonging and wrinkle
like a dry leaf.
your colors will mingle in the cadence
of old friends whispering.
there’s no stern
voices here, no belligerent
image bursts like the boisterous acrylics,
no stark lines of ink
or mischievous charcoal—
all modest, not quite sure
of yourself, of what you’ll say
or how to find your place with
the others. worried how we’ll see you,
what we’ll think of your meek
and feeble explanations,
that we might mistake your silence
for ignorance
when we wake.