The artist sits alone among grains of sand,
brushed with colors of dusk, a dry palette
much larger than his skilled hand, and ponders
his masterpieces gracing galleries and tempting wallets,
his name like chocolate on the tongues of the masses.
A lick of brine tastes his feet and retreats, depositing
a kelp-kissed stick, a stylus of possibilities.
His fingers enfold it, and with a familiar feel
it conforms to calluses and contours like a favorite brush.
He scratches lines and curves upon the grainy canvas,
transferring his tired visage to the earth, his own mien
smoothing and blanking in a relaxed blood-drain of self.
Finished, the artist sits alone among grains of sand,
watching the wash of surf erase his face.