the painter

June 18, 2010 § Leave a comment

up the ladder he goes,
brush and can in hand,
“write me a poem,”
he says,
while painting the wall.

he doesn’t know
– it’s my big secret –
that he is my poem.
he’s my painter, my muse,
my life-giving bread.
he sustains me,
supports and nourishes me.
most of all,
he brings the love.

without this
i do have doubts
my words would lack the sweets
imparted by these rose-colored glasses
i get to wear.

“and what’s he got to do with the glasses?”
you ask.

fair and true, here is your answer:
it is only that i asked a bold question myself,
and he is who answered the call.
i think if he hadn’t
i would be peering at life through a fouler lens.
i can’t say for certain,
but i know what happened
was for real,
and that’s what counts.

he climbs up the ladder,
blessings in hand,
“write me a poem,”
he sings,
while painting my soul.


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