This is the color of laughter.
When smoke has choked the blue from your sky
and grey seems the color of eternity, hang on to hope
for it can keep you afloat and mend your tattered faith.
When the old red barn is dressed up with a window box
not even the high noon sun can wilt away
in the garden
that I glimpse
from the side of my eye
Darting through blossoms
resting on leaves
taking advantage of sunshine and breeze
Pointing out a shapely cloud
waiting on my mailbox
inquisitive antenna cocked
the final stop.
Tim Mann, dear friend and fellow traveler,
you are remembered.
The images of the day
roll across the river’s surface.
A moving picture that will only show once.
You seem to extend into eternity.
Next to you I know my smallness is the right size.
I am a necessary fragment of your wholeness.
When the afternoon melts into dusk and evening is on the rise
new dreams are born in shadows and cloud forms
as old dreams disperse with the day.
At the charming roadside stand wait
garden embellishments for tourists.
Paper weights for memories.
Glimmering in the sun.
Hungering for fenders.
The morning mist is a curtain
waiting to be pulled open by the sun
revealing the action of the day.
Ancient acorn woman
wanders the forest floor
tends the wild rose
Mother Nature’s remnants
speak to me
of the secret lives in the forest
The post marries the beam
after a courtship of hand hewing and attention to detail
that seats them perfectly together
forever supporting one another.
I live in art.
painted my sky.