The first vision you ever had for me was blue,
albeit, a bit hazily speckled across my canvas,
sparsley separated from the rest of the daunting white,
but it wasn't enough.
You pondered it for a few minutes but thought better of yourself,
so you cleaned up the blue and added red instead.
Oh red, what a wonderous color,
but over the years you've diluted it to pink,
and that's okay, it suited me best anyway.
You couldn't be sure of your inital sketches,
lined in yellow across my sides,
and so you would work, rework,
and work again; and that was fine.
I've always found it funny,
you know,
how your pallette can be so so very small,
and yet create so many different works,
I wonder how you know which of us go together;
to line your halls with canvases, different and alike,
how are we to make such a satisfactory gallery?
Once, not too long ago,
I met a man, and I think you wrote him in green,
lathered the sides with a smooth ink,
and clumped, in oil, a bright orange near the bottom,
and I think he hopes no one notices the edge,
but I've always found it to be the most beautiful.
It's rather peculiar, really,
to see one color morph into another,
for a shape to become something much larger,
and to see the techniques mimicked in a chain,
a group of us, only linked by the initial movements,
brushed over so many times we might just forget.
Each of us,
a work of art,
separated only by years,
colors,
and life's rotations.
