He held color like breath,
not to contain,
but to release.

A red chair,
floating in a sea of calm,
tells no story
but all meaning
finds its shape within it.

His hands,
once steady with line,
turned to scissors-
not in defeat,
but in revelation.

Blue dancers rise
from paper and silence,
cut from memory,
held by light.

He made joy
not as escape,
but as answer.

And the window-
always the window-
opening inward
to the outward.