This table,

With all it's scars and knobs,

Smoothed by varnish and sandpaper,

But aged, cracked.

What my mother would call "character."

 

Here comes the tornado girl,

An uncontrollable toy top,

Ripping out of the reach of a small child,

And trembling on these cracks,

Teetering just on the edge.

 

Be still.

Don't you know?

You're still alive.

 

She hits the glass,

Water and paint sent spilling,

Spreading swiftly across the page,

Submerging,

And pouring beyond the page's limits.

 

She's watercolor brush strokes,

seemingly serene,

In rich blues and greens,

yet simultaneously chaotic.

Red pain splattered,

In contrast to her favorite hues.

 

Glass upturned.

But you're never

spent up and dry.

 

Paint and water,

Soaking into table cracks,

Staining oak with indigo, emerald, crimson.

Water puddling,

Finding a new home within these knobs and knots.

 

And this turning top,

Spiraling, spinning, slipping in puddles,

Hovers in this beautiful mess of paint and water,

Her own masterpiece,

And falters, undecided.

 

Be still.

Don't you know?

You're still alive.