the dots and lines

my bosom friend
scratch a line
on the large canvas
stretched on the easel,
resting on the axis
with a spinning frame;

no?

at least let your pencil
dart into the white canvas
that would bill a mark
to grow and grow
into a long line
that widen into
a large thoroughfare
where we all walk yonder
to the fringe of life
together
inhaling the green fragrance
of pastoral pleasures,
when all all
utter at the onlookers
"we were here.we were here;
the unforgettable masterpiece.