Back to those well worn paths
where the first oak leaves fell
to create a red-
brown carpet for the new snow;
where the morning sun spoke of

the day as brushes
of brilliance, but the sloping sun
refused to answer
for the purple evening;
where there is a rhythm taught

in the inertia
of his final movement
as the road grows silent
and he begins to take root;
where needing understanding

does not preclude art
found in rising monoliths
on his walls, ceilings,
and floors, or in the shadows cast
by airplanes; where he can paint

with watercolors
stories of the amber wind
reflecting his tread
on the cement.  Most dreams are
too big for morning, others

are too small for sleep,
crawling through in forgotten
stares as the seasons
blend or riding with the moon
while it spies on the sun.



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