The Poems: Paint

I reckoned the hues of autumn upon the house.

I reckoned the hues of autumn

upon the house;

robust crimson,

muted green, dry gold

on russett brown.

I brushed with currant,

willow, sage, and earth

in the warm afternoons of October.

To obey the visitations of a recurring dream, the one

with the voice persuading “paint!”,

I took up with buckets and pollocked my way

to faith and love and escapade.

My house, my life, is of the colors

from nature’s charis-wheel.

I will not be known for working at

the fine restraints of civil concord.

There are brows to raise

in whimsy.

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