capturing the quiet

the painter's palette
spinning shades with the twirl of a brush
humming to himself
the artist plucks pines from coarse hairs
at the end of long thin trunks
he concocts deep greens
for the forest at night time
and squeezes the milky way across the sky
with remnants of white
left in a wrinkled old tube

dim light finds its way
through gaps between the branches
twilight in the aura of a halo
from hidden campfire's glow
on the scene is a faint melody
where the wooden world meets the city
on the outskirts I can hear it
painted by a stranger
singing his songs to the silence