My hands are shaking as I dip the brush
Into the fresh paint.
Maybe because of the cold inside the cave,
But it’s the fright of making a mistake that keeps me alert.
The painting needs to be perfect,
The tenderness must be grasping,
After all, these animals represent my tribe’s life.
Without their being, where would ours be?
Our source, of not only of food, but life,
Comfort, clothing, from their fur.
What a magical circle of life,
Where we are the most blessed with gifts.
The paint moves smoothly along the features
Of the reindeers’ body,
And I wonder about what must be so perfect,
To possess the ability to create such perfection.
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