The White Canvas
Oh, white canvas,
You lie serenely on the chiseled easel,
So immaculate, so angelic and pure,
That I can’t imagine
A hidden mark that would mar your perfection.
Were I given just one word, you’d be perfect,
But is it true?
Can I embrace the sheer whiteness?
Can I embrace a beauty with no edges?
Along comes the artist with his palette,
Splashing color all along the depths of your ivory sea.
I’m horrified by this sacrilege,
Unwilling to believe that heaven would allow this act.
But I look again, and realize that these tiny flaws,
Each ugly when alone, make a masterpiece as one.
The unnamed and unsung quality that makes something feel right
Is not in each lonely stray stroke,
Not in the plainness of white,
But the beauty’s found in the art underneath.
Now I know these rugged strokes were here before the artist ever was,
And I’d throw dull perfection out the blue window any day
For such a beautiful mistake as this.
The white just barely peeps through,
But it doesn’t matter,
Because I love all of you.