Vernacular Painting

This is a vernacular painting, I said, and she looked gracefully, hazel-eyed, her skin ivory silk, her hair rusty red. She cast at me an arcane, taciturn glance, silently standing, observing. She is the hidden source of my brush strokes, I thought, recondite turning of color schemes, the origin of lines forms and space, tone and texture, an esoteric fountainhead of mass, the silent wheels in the protoplasm of my cells, my art, a conscious class of unconscious symbols, painted metaphors, concealed inner music of distant celestial spheres yonder, dynamic rhythms, enduring Nordic monads, the alpha and omega click, a substance wandering in the somber corridors of brain in luscious memories, sweet curvatures rocking on amber cosmic waves of arbitrary harmonies, occult entropies, a reticent carnation, and the periodicity of revolving planets, a pied cosmic image of time duration, a perpetual colored pendulum, striving to obtain galactic equilibrium, the compressed space and spring of an intimate clockwork, the eternal desire, an etching of infinite yearning, a pullulating joy of the morning I know, the beloved, warm rolling cry from the high mountain in the chilly snow.