Artist of the Trees

Laying upon the sterol sheets

A man of 93,

With hair the color of the clouds,

And eyes that of the sea.

His gaze fixed on the ceiling,

Where it has stayed for days

Going over in his head,

The memories that he’s made.


The first day that he rode the bus.

The crisp sent of the rain.

The exotic sensation of love and lust,

Whenever he laid eyes on Christina Maine.

Those crazy years in college,

When life felt at its peak,

But then he held her in his arms,

And only need’st blink—

Then she was off as he stood watch

From the house’s porch

“How the time does seem to fly,” he thought,

When you’re more than a spectator of the sport.


Starring at the ceiling, smiling at the past

The man began to wonder,

In death would his bliss last?


What would he do to pass the time

In the white washed clouds above,

Would he sit amongst the angels?

Would he lie beneath a throne?

Could he go and visit relatives;

Whether dying, dead or at home?


Then the old man’s eyes lit up,

And he realized what he would do…

He’d paint the leaves on all the trees,

And sing their rustled tune.


And with that thought he rolled upon,

His bony, worn out hip,

Closed his eyes, and with a smile,

Began his career as an artist.


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