Help me track my life
like a paintbrush
sliding on the day,
daubed with unexpected colours
that leave traces
where I am moved,
the supple tip of my wet bristles
delicate in connection.
Not the mover,
not with some grand design in mind’s eye,
held by an unseen hand,
sometimes with precision
or gripped in a stronger passion,
knowing I can be flung aside,
but still and hard along my length,
flexible where I meet the day,
trailing a messy beauty.