Color shifts by degrees —
heat, distance, saturation.
Peach into rose, rose into air.
A thin white line cuts through —
it hums but doesn’t waver.
Edges blur then settle orange against shadow,
geometry built from hesitation.
Pattern like breath, repeated but never exact.
Leaves or shapes —
stamped like wallpaper,
or under a child’s boot;
rhythm steady either way,
a pulse made visible.
In another frame —
pink and lilac flirt with yellow,
a tone held long enough to remember.
Paint behaves like sound when it’s thin —
frequency without noise,
the same horizon
at different times.
