Painter's Blue

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