The mad Artist wields His brush,
Painted colors rush,
To life, and give flush,
Before the quiet autumn hush.
The life seems to pour,
As colors fall to the floor,
To be seen, no more,
Outside the dark, grey door.
Brightness from below,
Sun upon the snow,
High, cold clouds blow,
Flakes and ice appear to grow.
The man melts with little seen,
Underneath, pale, grey green,
Hides life in dark unseen,
Waits for warmth, and to careen.
Buds on branches show,
Patience starts to grow,
Trickles, streams and veins flow,
Bringing fruits of melted snow.
Sprung to life, it springs,
Bees, birds, sound rings,
Lush green flings,
Its gift, bounty brings.
Green growth gives one last rush,
Underneath the Painter's brush.
The mad Artist wields His brush,
before the quiet autumn hush.
More poetry available here.
James M. Hahn, Author 