Not looking for reality here, not portraits, more some life and marks behind that. Much blind drawing and pandemic yoga. I have penned my poem to the first image:
I draw breath
Slow, slow I draw breath, my breath
So I might breathe it out on paper.
My breath. Drawn down to belly and toes,
Drawn in, passing colours through closed eyes,
Feeling a path through charcoaled fingers
It lingers in the air and then exhales.
Light, hard, left, right, loose, tight.
To rub or shove, or stretch and curl,
The graphite whorl spells out drawn breath
Across the page of freedom unseen before me.
I will not look yet.
Let the ink jet black unfold its surprise.
Aah, eyes unfurl. Yes. I have drawn breath.