The Painting

I wish to paint magnificent,

convoluted image

of billions of stars inside 

the canopy of rampant sky.

So I could marvel

their light, reflected, gleaming

in ancient town 

where little chapel white still stands.

Inside it I have cried

when you were missing -

my tears heavy, burning 

welled up.

I have no canvas,

nor I have palette.

My brush so rough

is made of wounded words.

Inside the clear

nightly sky

I'm  gently reaching,  

catching stardust with my bare hand.

And then I’m mixing it

with breeze that murmurs, 

and gently is caressing

shy, tall grass.

I use my mind 

to paint enchantments

onto the wings 

of little butterfly.

Tomorrow, 

early in the evening,

my painting 

can be seen by anyone.

But only those will see it 

who are looking, 

for a little magic 

on the gentle moon.