To the Hand
To you, tremor and steadiness, guide of the eyes' thread, mysterious line of sight which flows thence to the brush's underside, and
sets to it a germinitive light. To you, flower in action, copula, permanent accomplice to the pen, tactful, slow, obediant, discreet unless flung out-disjunctive only then. To you, cross-canvas traveler, helpmate, bearer of the stalk that generates blossoming creatures, marvelous and ardent. For the paintbrush, you are not an open rose: you make your living happily half-closed. To you, the tutelar god of Painting's garden.
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