Paint, Mother

I smeared a finger through the stars that clung to the kitchen basin, where you doused the embers at the tip of your brush and washed away the dry universe that stood to long, unstirred. Chaos, you crafted. Woven gold to grace the blue that thundered in the frame that whispered. A centre, a circle, a broken moon. A galaxy of strokes minute, that rampaged in silent consent of rebellious uniformity. One day, mother. One day, not so far in my imaginings. The land will know, the world will see; you mind in colour on canvas captured. Your everything in emanating - chaos