Cubist Dragon My friend Maureen Flora wrote a poem about this fractal: Picasso's Dragon Sharp angles sprang at him - clean and rainbowed. He tried to tame it, grayed and whitened it, but its wings spread off the canvas and denied him control. He rushed to find blue and flung a bucket of cerulean to put out its flame. It drank every drop and still its scales kaleidoscoped with red and green and orange and purple, hints of yellow and now, blue sang there, too. He thought it was a bull he could grasp by the horns and steer and ride laughing at his power, his control. The dragon laughed instead. Its claws raked his canvas the shreds fluttering, floating, like ash or snow. Glittering and glowing, the dragon swept out the open window - claws and wings, head and back, blocks and triangles rising against the descent of the sun. Picasso threw out his arms in frustration or salute and cried in farewell or anguish. The dragon did not wonder or care. All that was left in the twilight was a wooden frame, flecks of canvas on tables, chair, and floor, and a big blue puddle near the easel as Picasso left his studio and softly closed the door. © 2004 Maureen Flora       All Images Copyright © Alice Kelley