Small winter poem 5 | Paintbrush

I keep my paintbrushes in a plastic box
In a drawer
In the corner
Of the basement.

There are maybe 40 brushes in the box
Remnants from classes
Workshops from my childhood
Mixed together now.

I don’t paint very regularly
Maybe a gift here and there
Mostly I take the box
When a group project requires art supplies.


In the mix of the forty-plus brushes
There is
A particular

Whenever I open the box, I rifle through all of them
Looking for that glimpse
Of the paint-stained
Turquoise handle.

Its bristles paint the finest lines of any of the brushes
The most precise detailing
The subtlest shadows
The most pointed accents.

I don’t know where it’s originally from
Although the handle reads “Germany”
I certainly didn’t buy it
Anywhere over the pond.

All I know is that it’s there, in the box
A trusty friend
But mine alone
A happy secret of art and solitude.


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