Blue, magenta, yellow and orange, snips of a rainbow cascade in a shower, finding their place under the mahogany bench. His little hands meticulous in their purpose, finding just the right pieces to dab into the wet copious puddles of white glue. Eyes scrunched in concentration, barely rising in mention of dinner, driven to achieve just the right artistic message.
Carefully laying aside his labor in a growing pile, he finds the pulls fresh canvas from the ream of paper, his mind working feverishly several steps ahead, the picture already gaining clarity. Black letters break the stark glare of emptiness, forming illegible script to the naked eye. His pink tongue pokes out the corner of his screwed up lips, taking a peek at his progress.
Puffed air blows out his lungs, signaling the end of his marathon. Wandering eyes survey the landscape of his imagination, finding form in mish mash abstraction. He declares them ready, placing them in our laps, unique to each of us.
The more glue, the more love, he says, as rivulets find their way to the linoleum below.
Smiling at that which binds us together, a tear creeps across my eye into a warm embrace. Yes, I think glue is good, even in it's mess.
There is no remedy for love but to love more. ~H. D. Thoreau