The Painter (Re-Posted)

 

I remember a painter:
Who tried to capture light reflected,
White and gold, on all things built
By Nature and by Man.

Who mixed her own colors,
From sage to indigo,
To mimic her garden.

Who painted her homegrown blooms
Set in sentimental vases.

Who studied in wonder:
A stand of birch trees against a dark, storm sky.
A scene nearly absent of color and shadow:
A matte monochrome of silver to steel.

Who gave away her small canvases,
To whom she knew they should belong.

Who titles her poems
As if they are paintings.

Whose brushes are dry and arranged like flowers,
And mingle in a teacup with her poet's pencils.
Who waits to see with painter's eyes once more. 




Comments:
 
markBrad   markBrad wrote
on 11/13/2009 4:32:02 PM
I see what you meant very descriptive piece

Rinskinski   Rinskinski wrote
on 9/2/2009 7:01:44 PM
Great rhythm! You have a talent for writing really good free verse!

Michele
Poetry
Free Verse
writing Michele
"...a poem a day, keeps the shrink away!"

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