If music was sad, I’d paint it blue.
I’d sit it right down,
on that easel I used much too long ago,
and I’d paint it ocean blue, with yellow sand and rocky waves and white seashells.

If music was happy, I’d paint it yellow.
So that it could stretch across the sky
from cloud to cloud,
and replace the sun.

If music was loving, I’d paint it red.
Fold it up and put a stamp on it.
And send it sealed up in an envelope
on Valentine’s day.

If music was peaceful, I’d paint it green.
I’d let it grow, let the seeds sprout new life.
I’d let the music float down the river, let it get carried away in the wind.
I’d bring it outside, and let it become one with nature.

If music was a good storyteller, I’d paint it black.
I’d listen to it, coax the story out of it.
I’d open up an empty book, and paste the music inside,
so that the music can become black words on paper,
so that everyone can hear its tale.

If people were all listening,
if people cared to hear,
they can catch the music I put everywhere.

All you have to do is listen
and be still.
So that you can hear the music
in the wet, dripping paint of art,
in the puffy, bouncing clouds of the sky,
in the meaningful letters delivered to loved ones,
in the nature surrounding you everywhere you go,
in the books just waiting to be read,
and most of all,
in yourself.