Upon my eyes
is a canvas of white
empty of time
empty of life,
but as a brush
is slowly swept
a scene is born,
a memory kept.
In its wake
is a morning mist
upon the hands,
upon the lips
with pink clouds
and grasses green,
a purple sky
in silver cream.
Winds in the north
hills to the west,
white blankets lain
upon their crests,
where Aspens flutter
their golden leaves
a color vast
as the open sea
and as the sun
falls to set
a scene is born,
a memory kept.
A mid-night twinge
twinkles afar
in the fields
of endless dark:
a man in the moon,
a lete night kiss,
a shooting star,
a goodnight wish...
The silent pleasures
of ambient sounds
and drooping fogs
upon the ground.
A life in roam
frozen in time
for the brush has lain
its final line.
©chrisjones
C