A canvas waits like a night sky, The brush lifts, arcs, and flies; Pollock lets the color answer With a rhythm older than the eyes. Each bright collision leaves a record, Each looping line remembers how A body made a shelter of its shoulders When closeness carried danger somehow. Deep beneath the story, Before the words begin, A small self-state keeps watch With armor pulled around its skin. So let the spiral turn, turn, turn Through the dark and into view. Follow the first flicker of the body, Find the room that holds us, too. Shock can move in waves of color; Affect can rise and still belong. The heart keeps drawing toward connection, One brave stroke becoming song. The brainstem reads the sudden signal; Attention gathers, muscles brace. The neck becomes a guarded doorway; The jaw holds fast against the space. An old attachment map keeps speaking In posture, pulse, and borrowed fear: “Stay small. Stay ready. Stay together.” A clever little guard has kept us here. The artist meets the armoring With patience, care, and time; Each line that once held danger Can loosen into shape and rhyme. So let the spiral turn, turn, turn Through the dark and into view. Follow the first flicker of the body, Find the room that holds us, too. Shock can move in waves of color; Affect can rise and still belong. The heart keeps drawing toward connection, One brave stroke becoming song. Deep Brain Reorienting listens For the earliest shift beneath the scene; The present gathers, here and now, As sensation sharpens into keen. AT Interweaves invite a different Balance through the head and spine; The body finds more room to orient, And the guarded self can redraw its line. Fibonacci curls through fern and galaxy, A nautilus, a storm, a turning seed; Life repeats a pattern of becoming A pulse, a pause, a change in speed. The canvas keeps its history, Yet history can change its frame; The child who watched the doorway Can meet the one who knows their name. Let the spiral turn, turn, turn From the deep unconscious into day. Through each layer, color gathers; The old guard finds another way. Shock can move in waves of color; Affect can rise and still belong. The body learns the room is present; The heart keeps drawing toward the song. One stroke, then space, then color A universe in motion, wide. The artist comes through every layer With the living self beside.
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