You're pondering the painting: the purple in these shadows, the waiting in these hands . . .

You're hearing the colours:

the dialogue between

spontaneity and discipline . . .

Art is the moment's motion in character.

''- That's Rembrandt alright!''

I hear you saying.

When fields flow into a wreathing sky,

when clouds cry out with the earth's hurt -

''That's Turner!'' ''That's Emily Carr!'' we say.

Life is the rationale of paint.

And that's my point:

not what we're doing has to say about us

but what we're doing has to say

about unselfed being . . .

From old masters to vignettes.

Now I'm seeing you in colour

driving to Kingston, Ontario,

to visit an Indian and having permission

to put a fresh pear in his hand

and talking and listening and leaving the prison

driving back with the sun plunging

in purple down your windshield and finding

that waiting's the pause between moments of giving . . .

Don't you see?

You look surprised.

''That's Christ,'' I'm saying

pointing to your living.

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