The Painting of You
a little more,
the painting of you
is changed.
It is richer,
yet somehow
less complete,
an erosion
of graceful form.
And yet until
they�re gone,
no two rainbows
are the same,
no two smiles
or loaves of bread,
no wrinkled
pair of hands;
until they end,
no two sorrows,
no fateful journeys,
no buried grief
or pain.
When you sigh,
you turn
another page;
I feel like
a watchman
coming in.
Your soup
is warming
on the stove;
see the bright
colors there,
the carrot suns
and blistered
drops of oil,
your wooden spoon
a solemn oar
to ply both
sea and land,
to tumble fear
and harness
fleeing reason,
to calm the spirits
waiting by your side.
November 14, 2005
Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author
Main Page
Author�s Note
Background
Notebook
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Collected Poems
Early Short Stories
Armenian Translations
Interviews
News and Reviews
Highly Recommended
Let�s Eat
Favorite Books & Authors
Useless Information
Conversation
E-mail & Parting Thoughts
Flippantly Answered Questions