When you paint, you use brushes or chalk or pencils or your fingers to express something that is inside of you. This thing that you want to express desires to have a life, a place, a space, a moment in time, an existance. And so, you take up a brush and you stare at the colors or the blank whiteness in front of you and you reach out to touch it and to breath life into it. There is no decision to be made, there is only movement and feeling between you and it.
This is how I feel about words, Richard. And if I could paint you a picture it would look like this today:
Gulls swooping, dipping, sailing on currents of air,
Calling out, blending with the background,
Your hawaiian print shirt, in motion, moving,
Dancing with the wind that plays today.
The same wind moves across the water to the land,
Moves through mountains and valleys,
Across fields of wheat that toss and turn and sway,
To my face, lifting my hair, teasing again.
The same sun that smiles on that warm beach,
Shines on these eager red and yellow tulips,
Tiny purple pansies that lay low to the ground,
White confetti flowers that scatter everywhere.
We have our very own little carrier pigeons that
Bring tiny notes on skinny legs tied carefully,
Landing at your feet on the warm beach shore,
Completing the journey, delivering the message.
You cradle the bird, gently to retrieve the note,
And you open the folds, one after another,
Turning your back on the wind, holding it in both hands,
To read letters and words written only for you,
