The Conservator Leaves One Crack Untouched

On open studio day,
visitors watch her work
on a landscape darkened by a century of smoke:

a river under evening blue,
a row of poplars thinning into distance,
a small town gathered along the far bank.

She bends beneath the lamps.

They ask why she leaves
one hairline break untouched.

She smiles.

Every painting keeps one honest sentence.

Along the river,
a fine seam runs through the paint,
where the blue sky meets the water.

“The crack is part of the painting,” she says.

“It arrived later,
bringing time with it.”

Visitors lean closer.

A child points to the narrow line.

“Is the painting broken?”

“No,” she says.
“It has finished becoming itself.”

She steps back.

The river remains divided
by the small wound in the blue,
and somehow the landscape
looks more whole for it.

Outside, rain enters
the sidewalk’s thin seams.

For a moment
the whole city resembles

a masterpiece.

 

David Anson Lee is a physician and poet born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. His work appears in literary journals including Bloodroot Poetry Journal, Braided Way, Ink Sweat & Tears, and The Scarred Tree. He explores intersections of art, memory, history, science, and the human experience. He lives and writes in Houston, Texas.