Easel

On a quiet studio floor, the easel stands—
a humble wooden frame, steady and grand.
It cradles the canvas, a patient host,
holding each brushstroke, each whispered ghost.

From dawn’s soft light to the amber glow of dusk,
it bears the hopes of the artist’s husk.
Oil, watercolour, or charcoal’s keen line,
all find their balance upon its spine.

No grand proclamation, no fanfare or cheer,
just the quiet promise that visions appear.
In the hush of creation, where thoughts take their flight,
the easel remains—faithful, upright, and bright.