The Painting of You

Each day,
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

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