Is it the slow creep of rose madder
that seeps along the horizon to add her song
to the voices in my head at the start of day?
Or the subtle flash, the subdued splash of Aureolin yellow
that unfolds as a single note
and as I realize she’s a chorus, before I can grasp her delicate hue,
there is a forte of blue, blue, blue, cerulean blue
pressing last night’s sleepy lamp black out of the way?
Or is it this clash of cymbal;
this slash of light that defies the confines
of Winsor & Newton to define as she races across
the prairies to pool in my yard
as I am once again entranced,
rushing, paint brushes in hand,
to try to capture the music, to capture the dance
before silence falls and fades to dark?
Yes that's me