Stepping out in the sun
not much, just enough
Things within these four walls
not regarded, not enough,
start to call out
to me
Time’s a changing
This instance
owed to
the voices inside
a small dusty carton
bearing
ancient little bottles
of tempera paint
I pick ‘em up
The moments
they were in my vision,
negligence,
a little more far way,
I pushed them away
like most things
from early years
In the box
are some dry,
some empty, some ugly
little containers
a few years worth
in contrast with
my new tools
But here
my dreams took root
fostered by my mother
I saw them
in these hues of
primary
I’d forgotten
A few strokes later,
the magic in
the pigments
wake up
my memory
like a curse,
broken.
They were the
two mountains with
the valley sun,
the yellow house
in it, the happy people,
the evergreen trees
and flowing water.
With that
I became
a child again
All it took,
was some paint
and some faith
Still does