Reaching for a brush, I grab the small misshapen one. The handle  Slightly loose And the bristles out of line. Oil pigments  Taken from the tube Mix with the turpentine  On my palette. A world they are ready to create. Stroke by stroke, Each building  From the previous. Objects which were once Just shapes, Now turn into life. Colors and textures Dance across the canvas Like autumn leaves In the morning wind. That surface,  Which was white Just hours ago, Now shines with hundreds Of hues. Beauty  Only seen in the imagination Now turned into reality. All from that one  Misshapen paintbrush.