Poetry written in the past years with WDC |
AN ARTIST'S PALETTE Maybe it will be this year that I ask Mum if she wants to come with us. I can just hear the motor humming, ready for another surprise--a cruise through the "country". He might carefully put her in the front seat and off we will go, as the blazing colors of red, brown, and orange streak across her vision crackling in the dirt, those blinding colors of autumn. I've never seen such a beautiful day, she might claim. Yes, Mum. An artist's palette, I could tell her. The hues of autumn find me behind you without regret. You have the sunflowers of August at your back, and the grand spice colors of the earth in your September steps. We need not go far. Just out into the county state park, pulling her out and letting her sit in fancy stirrups as if on an expensive Arabian horse, putting a small, warm blanket across her lap. She'd be tongue-tied. She proudly brags when she is in the" country ",Uncle Orn was a farmer, and even the corn stalks make her stir. She could flash a daring smile and just say, I recall those years at the seaside I'd loved, but I will never forget where I'm from. Maples, yes, gorgeous maple trees. The trees do not look so forlorn, but they will too soon . . . Better ask her. |