"Painting Pictures"

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I thought of what an artist, would do to capture the moment in time of a fresh snowfall, a New England snowfall. Then it was my turn to play artist, and I painted the same picture with words.

Submitted: September 25, 2006

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Submitted: September 25, 2006

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"Painting Pictures"

 

The artist brought a canvas ,

To the front part of my lawn .

And with him brought an easel ,

To set his canvas on .

A light oak colored box ,

Contained his paints and board ,

A Thermos full of coffee ,

No detail was ignored .

 

He wore a charcoal coat ,

That came down to his knees .

A fur lined rectangular hat ,

Saved his head from winters breeze .

Flannel pants of gray ,

Below his coat were seen .

The only thing that did not match ,

Were boots of olive green .

 

The sun was shinning brightly,

Yellow - Orange in shade

On freshly fallen snow ,

Such intensity it gave.

The sky a washed out powder blue ,

With clouds of cotton balls .

The purest day of winter ,

Just after new snow falls .

 

And there just in the distance ,

The artists' subject stood .

An old red barn snow covered ,

Cleared within the woods .

The barn in need of paint ,

Gray tainted wood exposed .

The paint still, on was flaking ,

A job for spring supposed .

 

The roof was missing shingles ,

Of colors brown and red .

And one could just imagine ,

The snow inside instead .

Near the barns top were two windows ,

Looking out a loft of hay .

One was nearly perfect .

The other, pane had broken away .

The artists' hands now freezing ,

Poured a cup of coffee .

Raised to his nose...both hands enclosed ,

It was a sight to see .

His beard and mustache brown ,

With subtle shades of gray .

Encircled his mouth , you saw only his lips

Between ice crystals formed long the way .

A couple of minutes had passed ,

His hands now no longer numb .

He again turned his attention ,

To completing the job he wished done .

The main idea was completed ,

It was time for details , and depth .

Adding pastel shades of color ,

As the fog rolled out of his breath .

On the barn the peak was full exposed ,

The lower left corner the same .

And all around the windows ,

Ice was pressed against the panes .

On the roof and against the door ,

And by the trees , drifts were seen .

A charcoal gray defined the depth ,

Against trees of evergreen .

 

The snow although the purest of white ,

Had other subtle shades .

Like yellows , pinks , and blues .

Worked in to show a glaze .

A single set of footprints ,

Led out of the barn door .

And one could only think ,

It was entered some time before .

 

The artist was now finished .

He admired his work with pride .

He was cold and frozen ,

But he was warm inside .

We've both painted pictures ,

Though it sounds absurd .

The artist using paints and brush ,

And me , I just chose words .

(c) D.R.Xander 2/96


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