The leaves swing by the rocking breeze
Leaving piles where they should not be,
Hiding the concrete underneath;
The sounding of the breeze still unsheathed,
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Blowing repeatedly until it’s pleased,
But by then it’s too late,
The image has already been in place.
As the artist’s heart beats inside,
Their minds work by its side…
left to right or up and down,
The brush is stained by the color brown;
Matching the color that is renown.
The brush finally turns to a stop,
Ending the work that has yet to come.
The time flies by without a fly,
The unfinished painting still waiting for a dye,
The stained brush is ready to fly,
The artist awaits for the first day,
That day will start with grace.
