On her knees, she scrubs floors by day, paints all night in a candlelit garret. From some whirling nexus beyond her ken, flowers, fruits and leaves flow from her fingers onto canvas. Form and color rise up and dance.
candlewax, and herbs--
from her narrow world
Starving while war boils around her, still she paints the stained-glass gardens of her soul. Someday her paintings will be exhibited in Paris and New York—yet Seraphine Louis will spend her last years in a madhouse.
visions and voices
from another realm—
embedded in the tree
Haibun Today 7: 4, December 2013