The Mirror on the Easel

By Srishti Sharma

I sit upon the grass, a velvet green,
A long, wide garden stretches out in peace.
My brush begins to paint the sky above—
So blue, so vast, the sun makes all things clear.
The clouds drift by like thoughts I cannot name.

Then strange: the canvas shimmers into glass.
It shows my face, not sky, not light, but me.
I’m old—but am I truly old inside?
I look it, yes—but do I feel it too?

The brushes speak, or so it seems to me.
They talk to one another, low and sharp,
Then fall—yet still continue in debate.
How odd they are, these tools I used to trust.

I glance back at the house. It feels too close.
Its walls breathe in too deep, and press me down.
“You are a pain to care for,” whispers air.
But where's my canvas now? It's gone, replaced.

A mirror stands where art was meant to be.
I feel the itch of fury in my bones.
The field still hums with life, but I am stuck.

The blood-stained brushes lie upon the grass.
What use are they? I hate to hold them now.
Yet still they gleam, untouched, precise, and fine—
Like they have never traced a single line.

I turn to seek the canvas once again,
But all I see is sun and sky and light.
And I am lying down upon the field,
The sun stares back, and all my thoughts go still.

Then comes a voice—my mother-in-law calls.
I rise, brush off the grass, and head inside.