The Dream by Gledisa in Toronto

Have you ever seen the wind blowing through the willow tree? The sun glimmering on the tops of the leaves, the underside dark. Every moment, so different but the same. Every moment leading to this very moment, to the next, and to the next. But I cannot write or think fast enough to catch the moment, because it fades into something, which cannot be captured. You see, a painting is not a movement. It is not an event or a time. It is everything and notthing. It is emptiness.