Painting Lakeside-2:oo P.M.

Parked in front
of a 16 X 24 inch canvas,
I contemplate duplicating
God's lands caped in green,
which are now left sprawling
before me in liquid splendour.
My Coma toes are still stiff,
and very chilled from their
earlier dips in the lake.
The scent of last nights
garlic is repeating memories
of pungent pastas blended,
all intermingled with
the sweeter scent
of Rosalia's perfume,
who shared my room
and a bit of her
spicier side as well.
The cobblestones
hobble my own
canvas backed chair,
placed in front of this
a d v a n t a g e o u s   v i e w,
for which I lift a brush,
and wet my palette.
Like fine wine, watercolor too
has clarity and sweetness.
It is the gathering
of a cluster of thoughts,
pressed onto paper,
to produce a vintage work.
Hours pass balanced on the edge
of perfection, or utter failure.
Townsfolk casually stroll behind me
with their occasional oooo's and ahhhs,
or just some silent nods as they
pursue the 3-D lives
granted to them here by this lake.
Soon enough the light fails
to enhance the colors I need,
as if God has pulled
a dimming switch on my dreams.
So I bundle up my easel
burdened with my tools of trade,
and clutch the unfinished
canvas to my chest,
as I wend my back
across the landings
to an oasis of wine, song,
Tomorrow is another day
and my subject
will remain eternal,
long after I am dust
beneath it's fields.



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