Canvassing 

by Laura Jenkins

The brushes
swirl and twirl
turn and churn
blotting our lives in strokes
impossible to understand.
Some are stout and bold
others wispy, like a single strand
of hair swept up
in a capricious wind.
It's a gradual becoming,
light and color melding
in hues of deep sorrow
unimaginable joy
colliding
in an extraordinary blast
of splendor.

Every canvas has a jagged edge
a crown to wear
a cross to bear
a hungry hope that we do matter
after all.
These lines can't be traced
sloppy patches of indigo and auburn
striking the page
like a hammer pounds a nail
like a whisper
that rolls softly
into your ear.

Sometimes it's a thick mess
a story with no rhyme or reason
mostly treason.
It's a debit card that
allows you passage
to whatever is next
toward whatever is behind the wood and cloth
the great mystery of disarmed time.
We are incandescent flies
buzzing around the earth
looking for ointment to land in
somewhere we can make our mark

We exchange our days
for a chance
one opportunity
to take our place in the sun
and beat down
on this terrestrial template.

What is your plate
your matrix
the imprint of you
the world needs to see?
How many will be signed and numbered
before you take your place
in the recycle bin
nourishing the earth
with your matter
what matters
to you.