I remember watching my sister paint.
Well, watching isn’t the right word.
I never saw her put brush to canvas.
I saw her close her doors and emerge
hours or days later
With something bright, colourful,

I would look at the plates
Covered in globs of mixed paints
The grey, dirty water in glasses
Hunting for clues
To how she created and captured

The changing colours of the sky
As it sets over our sweet water valley
The dark, dark green of the orange tree leaf
A wave crashing in the dark of a full moon.

My younger sister, it turns out
Can also create magic
With inks and brushes
And now, camera lenses.

How I wish I could close my door
And emerge with something beautiful
Though I lack my sisters’ talents
I make my own attempts using words.

A sunset such as I saw tonight
Can still make me crave
The ability to trap yellows, oranges, pinks, purples
And all the shades of blue and black
And overwhelm you
As they overwhelmed me.

This entry was posted in beauty, love, Poem, writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Painting

  1. tamaraprokopchuk says:

    Lovely poem ❤

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