Seasons

Fall

As she squeaks open her rusty, rickety chest
She takes another look at her always almost finished canvas
She lifts her palette and a thin tailed soft brush and begins

Gliding her hand over the edges
Of vibrant green leaves with a shade of yellow
And knows tomorrow she will be back
To fill other edges with a rusty red-brown
On every tree
On every leaf,
She’ll set her brush, and it’ll do its deed.

In several weeks
She comes back again
Her fingers squeeze through the openings of small, red scissors
She snips away one by one
The thread that keeps
The leaves with trees
Some leaves she leaves untouched for tomorrow.

Winter

Again, she sits down at her page,
With a small, wooden file
She begins scratching and peeling
Bit and pieces of the sky
And watches as they
Tip and tap, pit and patter.
The deeper she scratches
The thicker the drops
Until at last, her art lays covered.

Spring

With a sky wide open
She sets to work
Recreating and renewing
And her elbows and arms
Slowly blow away the residue of the sky on the plains.

With her canvas clean.
She takes new colors with bright shades.
And mixes and flicks
She fills the page with slivers of color in every corner.
Colors and textures unimaginable as compatible.

Vibrant red dresses, white speckles, deep green bangs.
Dark green spinach against purple cabbage.
Cliffs bended brown and gray with a string of dark gold.

Of course not all of it she fills today.
She draws the orange buds of some.
The green stems of others
Some, she said
She’ll finish tomorrow.
Others, she smiled.
Are meant to dry.