Paint

I reckoned the hues of

autumn upon the house;

Robust crimson,

muted green, dry

gold on russet brown.

I brushed with currant,

willow, sage and

earth in the warm

afternoons of October. To

obey the night to night

visitations of a

white dream with a

voice persuading

“paint!”, I took up with

buckets and pollocked my

way to faith and love and

escapade. My house, my

life is of the colors thrown

from nature’s charis-wheel.

I will not be

known for working at

the fine restraints of

civil concord. There are

brows to raise and

hearts to lift in whimsy.

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