Daphne

What is it that makes dreams broken?

Is it rainbows that never quite touch down to reach

a pot of gold? Is it

the way a wave of familiar melancholy

washes over someone staring at a painting

for the first time in colors scaling mainly

shades of blue? There are hints of Daphne

that bring me chords of the pathway,

camino. I have broken dreams of my own, John.

What good does it do to put them down

in oil on canvas and share them with others?

Would I feel better if I followed suit?

Are the storm clouds in the distance the same

as the crossed out words on my page? Sitting

on the floor in front of your work, reflecting

light appears as a sun next to your rainbow,

and I wonder if you know; though art is not often

viewed from such angles.

You and I make beauty after pain --

it only follows -- the way sunlight makes rainbows

after rain. Is it a sign of hope or

a sign of suffering? Both,

surely, can be answers. It's the deciding

that becomes the hard part,

no?