Brushstrokes

Knowing not age, life's mind colors,
Like the number-paintings stored in attic webs,
Merely become dust covered pleasures of memories past,
When Ferris wheels rotated dreams,
Calliope horses pole-galloped adventure,
Cotton candy played catch-me-if-you-can.

How easily our youth painted the future,
Laid down colors most apparent,
Reds of sunset passions,
Blues of sky reflected oceans,
Yellows of cornfield hide-and-seek
Green making all the falling down plush as summer lawn.

Primary hues,
Like even-numbered shapes,
Fall short the color containment.
Boundaries bleed.
Chance pushes discovery.
Mustards find full-up dance cards.
Purples hemorrhage bruises once flawless cover.
Gray becomes reality's true color.
No blacks.
No whites.

Simple brush strokes
Evolve to palette knife strata,
Thickness of time layers over,
Numbered boundaries melt away,
Framed borders cease to be.

How perfect this wanderlust,
Wisdom's gift-wrapped beginnings,
Ever grateful the loft-stored memories,
Thankful the web's defending watch
Protects time’s morphing colors,
Now with no names,
No “clinging” identity.

Such is…

Initiation's flirtatious way,
Patiently mixing aroused shades,
Tints and dyes to be cast for…

Tomorrow’s brushstrokes.