Every photograph untaken
Every brush stroke unpainted
Every stanza unwritten
Every story untold
A small darkness left unilluminated
Every photograph untaken
Every brush stroke unpainted
Every stanza unwritten
Every story untold
A small darkness left unilluminated
Sometimes I squint
To smudge the world
Within my mind
Then paint upon
The softened scene
A different
Kind of magic
The rugged land
A windward lee
And as the ripples
Lap the shore
The air, it riffles
Through my hair
Now calm descends
Upon my brow
My heart
In gentle rhythm
With the waves
Sun warms my face
This life like art
No better hand
Could wield a brush
Paint such perfection
On my soul
Sometimes
I know
Sometimes not
Which will touch
Which will not
Surprised, too
Often
By how they are read
By what is seen
By others
All the brushes
Nature requires
To paint with stardust
On the canvas of existence
I assure
Their voices
Are heard
I speak for them
When they cannot
Speak for themselves
Yet over time,
This brush and paint
Create a land
Of uncommon beauty