Brush

In the quiet corner of the studio,
a paint‑brush waits, its bristles still,
ready to coax colour from the tube,
to sweep the canvas with a lover's thrill.

Each hair, a whisper of sable or hog,
holds the memory of sunrise hues,
and as the wrist bends, the world unfogs—
strokes of jade, of ochre, of daring blues.

Beyond the easel, a hair‑brush gleams,
its wooden spine smooth as river stone,
through tangled locks it gently streams,
leaving shine where shadows once were shown.

Whether coaxing pigment or taming locks,
the brush is a quiet artisan’s friend,
turning the ordinary into works that mock
the fleeting—giving beauty a chance to mend.