Her Brush with Death
©August 2013, Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
It began innocently enough.
He said, “I’d love to paint you.” She smiled.
He posed her. She sat for hours. He sketched.
Day after day, indoors and out.
She oooed and ahhhed as his brushes worked;
Yet, there was a part of her not captured.
No amount of detail could replace what
He needed from his lovely model.
With a soft blues he stroked her cheek
And angled in touches of oranges
For strength and highlighted her
Red hair with streaks of greens.
Passionate purples caressed
Her breasts with each stroke
Of the master’s brush and thin yellows
Flowers decorated her filmy negligee.
As his hand brushed her femininity,
She found she’d given him her heart;
It was the one thing left to paint
And it became her brush with death.