I met a friend in a photo, dear,
She didn’t know I was a friend.
I walked in her woods, saw her build smiles
From smiles over hill and dale. She held a bridge
Out to me when I was drowning.
I will build a bridge for her
To travel to and fro where the leaves
Still stand red in amazement,
Where a giant crawls from the Earth
In a great awakening.
The business men who fail to look up
Or down or around while they text,
Should look behind. For great art gives
A great gift and beauty is planted
As the winds grow cold, and winter comes.
I’ll share a moon with you to brighten your way,
Perhaps a rainbow to connect the world again
Where peace is a flower, a snowflake, a smile.
At dusk, everything is golden. The sun stretches, reaches long fingers to the land. One last caress to her children, one last kiss. Out there in the distance, they normally turned their heads away, as children do. It’s all part of the cycle of growing up. She never resented that. Tonight, though, she heard a sound, a coo perhaps of happiness, and turning saw a reflection of her own love reflected back at her. This was special, something she would see after a storm in the middle of the day. Musical notes added to the coo, until at last all of the sun’s errant children sang to her glory. Smiling at the rainbow, she clucked her tongue and tucked them into bed. Her sister the moon would protect them tonight.
As a little girl,
She read a book where whitewashing was done on walls and fences.
She pretended to be Tom
Swishing and brushing to put a shine
Where the fence was between
Swish, splash, she turned her head
Looking for missed spots in the surface.
As a woman,
She worked long hours for a firm
That asked her to clean up
After their long day of dealings,
So she bent over her computer
Editing the to and from
The up and down
She washed the pages clean of color
Transposed them into a harmless key.
As an ancient one,
She sat and snipped her luscious
Thread, using the rainbow
Stitching and splicing
Ribbons created of long colored
Memories that never
Were just as they were remembered.
She thought of her paint brushes,
Dry and gone, from when she ran out of white paint.