Today, he was sitting on the bench,
Sketch pad and pencil in hand.
The wind ruffled the paper
While clouds dimmed the world.
I have seen him about the town.
Sketching, drawing, painting
In bright summer dancing in color
And dismal winter of charcoal gray.
I sat next to him and glanced at his work.
His hands were sturdy, the fingers gentle.
“Wouldn’t it be easier in a studio?” I asked.
He adjusted his pad, hand flickered on.
Paints have to spill,” he said.
“Brushes have to hit, tickle, and wave;
Pencils cut, trace, kiss, and break;
And easels get knocked down.”
“Color must be grabbed, smelled,
Rubbed between fingers and tasted.
Form dances, skulks and caresses.
Light and shade play hide and seek.”
He closed his pad and pocketed pencils.
“Yes, it would be easier in a studio.”
With crinkled eyes, he threw me a wink.
“But, then how fun would that be?”
This poem is a part of the Wordz collection.