She Is A Painting.

She is a painting.

She rests by day in a frame. Four walls and four corners.

From 10-6, every day, she is stillness itself.

Everyone eventually leaves, but she sits for another hour, just to be sure.

Finally, when darkness falls and street lights glow, she knows it’s safe.

And she’s free.

She leaves her perch and roams all night.

Her favorites are the landscapes. She walks sunny trails and snowy hillsides, smells roses and wishes upon stars.

She stares at bowls of fruit in the still life section, waiting for something to move. It doesn’t.

Colors surround her in the abstract room. She doesn’t know what any of it means but it makes her pulse race.

The black and white photography always makes her sad, although she doesn’t know why. The pictures of soldiers make her miss someone.

As the sun rises in the real world, she rushes through self-portraits to return to her perch.

And by the time the gallery opens, she is a painting.

Until tonight.

Then she’ll be free once more.