The first step is always a miracle.
The splash of paint on the palette,
a vigorous swirl,
and two colors collide.
Perhaps a pigment
that reverberates through time,
and breaks the heart.
Perhaps a new hue—
disturbing citron, breathtaking sapphire.
A color that people will nod and say,
Van Gogh yellow, Monet blue.
Brush strokes that speak their own language,
sing down the nerve endings,
and propel our fingers to trace the air.
Maybe it begins with a mélange of words,
a marvelous phrase that wakes you up at night,
drums in the brain
until it spills out, a wild bloom.
You never know where you’re going.
Could be across the ocean.
Could be straight over hill
and down to the white cottage.
The journey may take a perilous turn,
into dense trees that thicken
in a tyranny of branches and roots,
closing to an unsure end.
Here is the ageless heart of the mystery.
The white-clad maiden, barefoot,
relinquishes armor, weapons, guile,
and steps into the dark,
knowing this is her calling,
this the path.
MJ Moore lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her various incarnations have included technical writer and editor, grassroots environmental activist, teacher, poet and flash fiction writer. Her poetry has appeared in Bach in the Afternoon.