Springtime Stirs


As canvas runs with melting snow,

Winter slinks to earth below;

evaporating paint expires

when Springtime stirs with warmer fires.

Artist’s Brush

blue winter sky

Artist’s brush, dipped in embers,

paints the scene of cold Decembers;

easel’s mate, in canvas clouds,

etches skies in icy shrouds.

Your Hand

Sunlight robed in Sunday best,

sky, the sea on canvas brushed,

leaves in rustling autumn vest

swayed to whispered wind-worn hush.

Branches opened fists of wood,

letting go of season past,

and I, who underneath it stood,

saw Your hand, and gripped it fast.


How did you whisk sunshine from skies up above

And add it to petals, to burst with its rays?

When did you clamber down into the mine-shaft

In order to add liquid gold to your gaze?

Why did you feel you could steal golden paintbrush

From canvases brilliantly hung in the Louvre?

Where did you learn how to strut with such confidence,

Knowing your beauty has nothing to prove?