On the grass I paint,

my heart bleeds for
a rainbow dream.

Kentucky funk hides
beside gaudy tones,

afterwards we read
in wellington boots,

two little wrens hop
into view.

Your voice, nothing
but a dusty anecdote.

The yellow of the sun soaks into the walls, as zebra stripes disguise.  I am a psychedelic paint-*** lost in a living room.

I am a broken window,
lit by the beam of the
moon.

Night after night I cry,
for tomorrow is the
end of time.

Gypsy-woman,
a silver-tongue
in my past lies.

Yellow is the wave,
old scissors cut - in
art circles return.

A blue-jay sings as
her rocking chair
creaks.

Three moments in a freeze-frame.  The dark sky pauses.  Light falls as the swirl of the ocean stirs your heart.  Tomorrow we long for.  Some say a time of replenishment, a time to return.  But here we sit, rocking away the blues, listening as the wild bird sings.  What can we hear when we are no longer there?

Six red petals
plucked from
the edge of
darkness.

When the son follows in the footsteps of mother nature. Another moment of emptiness to savour.  She plants her seeds, wondering not where they will grow.  Her stories ride upon the breeze.  Green is the medicine she shares.  A bright eyed child removes the fear, the shadows exposed, deeper than before, a simple shade divides.

Lime green, her soothing
words, repairing broken
hearts once more.

Yellow is a
six-pence
gleaming.