Trying to hold fond, forever memories,
I painted the sun setting in the hills
With a river running down, and cottonwoods
And elms standing in thick shade, waiting,
Forever imprisoned in the oils.
There were rich red-golds and blackish greens
And blue-gray dusk was over all, and yet,
My painting so carefully brushed was not
The sunset I tried so hard to hold
A moment longer on the cloth.
I missed or could not capture
Birds in sleepy twitters calling,
Slow curling camp fires scents,
And the red-gold glinting sun on your hair.
Pictures are not like being there.
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 10:56 AM UTC
Trying to hold fond, forever memories,
I painted the sun setting in the hills
With a river running down, and cottonwoods
And elms standing in thick shade, waiting,
Forever imprisoned in the oils.
There were rich red-golds and blackish greens
And blue-gray dusk was over all, and yet,
My painting so carefully brushed was not
The sunset I tried so hard to hold
A moment longer on the cloth.
I missed or could not capture
Birds in sleepy twitters calling,
Slow curling camp fires scents,
And the red-gold glinting sun on your hair.
Pictures are not like being there.
The poem explains the painting;
Art walks hand in hand with art;
One form is lost without the others;
Artists are all sisters and brothers.
Request permission to use this poem