I knew a boy who could paint with his mind
And the colors that he exuded told stories
Once he sat in an empty city lot-
Cross-legged, dust between toes and sandals.
With a stick he etch a circle in around him,
And spilled his deeper colors within-
And watching as these deep paints
Bled to lighter pastels beyond.
His colors bit, made sounds,
talked to each other, smelled of incense,
Blended and parted
Sent up a mist infused with the tang of copper
The air around him,
Heavy in the hang of late afternoon,
Carried echoes of protests, of wishes,
Denials, reclamation, and return.
The inner and the outer are just as real
And in flight, he could smell the wet edges of clouds
And see the tumble of a boyhood projected
In mind-made phosphorescence on closed eyelids
He made sweetness a sound and a feeling
A shining path of talking colors,
Dream keeper's treasure chest
For bedtime journeys lit only from within.
June 26, 2009