In the vapor haze of window light, eyes shine.

The Master holds open the Nicolaïdes, crying.
 
Paint stained, destroyed with scribbled notes
about long meandering forest creatures
 
and other dreams that twirl in a fertile mind.
The apprentice opens the large studio door 
 
enough to squeeze his loose gangle through.
Closes it softly, turns and sees the holy book 
 
in that oh, so perfect hand. Frozen blood binds
there is no room for breath. He is ghost clear 
 
ivory and shaking. The Master tilts his head, glued
where he stands, tears fill his eyes as he whispers.
 
“Did you do this? Roll your brushes and bring them.
Your time here is finished.”
 
With one hand he takes the quiver.The other, kind meticulous hand cradles the book, pure gold.
 
Handing it to the student like a new set of brushes
the Master’s voice is twice broken and then firm.
 
“The graveyards are filled with brilliant 
young men still chasing their divine inheritance.
 
You are, no painter. You are in fact the only poet
I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. “
 
—–
 
The Master holds the quiver; a hundred thin slivers
of bamboo and sandalwood threaded with black
 
silk and tied with a pale blue spiral wound binding. 
His long arm and impossibly breathing fingers 
 
the only thing in the room; now trembling, reach out.
First time the apprentice has seen that hand shake.
 
Reflections of sunlight are heaven’s stars, delivered 
from the Master’s manicured nails as the apprentice
 
reaches for the only truth he has ever been given.
They clasp hands, two men holding on for dear life.
 
The Master’s brush, a breeze blown steam on a river tracing out that final farewell, still echoes in his mind.
 
“I will keep these.”