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,