I dreamed once I was a painter,
And in my smock became a creator.
A beautiful scene I'd ponder and stroke,
Divine inspiration or mirrors and smoke?
The canvas bore an awakening Spring,
Yawning green grass and birds to sing.
Then in a meadow of rugged course,
I fashioned a proud and prancing horse.
This art was mine to shape without ration.
It came to life through my own passion.
I toiled on for days, many more nights,
I wore on my brushes, painted new sights.
Suddenly fearful my visions would stray,
Glistening pigments whispered they’d stay.
My hand quickly crafted the crash of a surf.
A nod of its waves assured me my worth.
A face I did draw, and it gave me a smile.
Its body was lithe, dressed aptly in style.
The colors spun forth and extracted a calm
The lyric of art had rendered its balm.
So never give pause if clouds threaten by,
They always relent to the blush of the sky.
And who sees the stars or sun or moon,
When fearing their end will come too soon.
Copyright, 2010, by Steve Sloan