poem as gesture

i wrote daily with my brushes
the water became heavy
molten but not steam, there was
so much heat held inside
it flowed like glass after cooling-
millenial grapes.

you stand on the sidewalk watching
as i dip the brush into the bucket
your gaze changes the character
of what i was going to say:

something about want and need
colliding with atmosphere

something about the way cherry blossoms
fall in japan, a place i'll never go, a tree
i've yet to see

my wrinkled hand is steady
the paper is concrete
language emerges
surprising all the watchers,
myself the most.