 Today,
Firemen Go Forth To Burn The Waste Of Woods, As Logic Seems They Should. Smoke From The Fallen Undergrowth Taints The Morning Air, As With Great Care They Flame The Flammable, A Preamble Of Future Fire, Briefly Contained, Like Hot Desire.  *Albuquerque 3* 24" H X 30" W Oil On Linen Late
September, And The Season Changes As Nature Rearranges, Dimming The Sun As Morning Chills Have Begun. I Miss The Brilliant Summer Days, And All The Ways Life Seemed At Ease, But Time Never Aims To Please, No Matter What I Think, Poised At Autumn’s Brink.  You
Can’t Deny It, Life’s A Riot, A Merry Dash In A Party Sash, Looking For The Perfect Chance, The Grand Romance, Until No Longer Quite So Bold, One Slowly Grows Old. Never Mind, You Were Lucky To Find Your Way, All Of It A Sweet, Though Fleeting, Sunny Day.  Remembering
Again Grey Horse Called Rain, Mounting, Leather Creak, Smells Of Hay And Dust, The Way The Early Sun Shone Sideways In The Dawn, Alone, Out Along The Broken Path That Led Away And Gone, Back Then, Ready, Eager To Begin.  I Told
Them Then, And I’ll Say It Again. When The Occasion Calls For It, I Can Ignore All Of It.  *Plums In A Chinese Dish* 8" H X 10" W Oil on Linen I Had
A Little Talent And A Little Grit, And Made What I Could Of It. I Wasn’t Always Good, And Almost Never Wise, In The World’s Eyes Lost In The Shade, Another Fool, Absorbed In The Objects I Made.  In
The Heat Of Afternoon, I Water The Flowers, Delayed By ours. Hours. I Meant To Do So In The Still Morning, Fill The Shallow Bug Bath And Wait To See The Fat Robin Bathe, Ruffling Bright Breast Feathers In The Slightly Cooler Weather, Then Rest In The Mimosa With His Mate, But I Am Late. I Hope He’ll Wait To Wash Until Evening, When The Sun Is Not So Harsh.  *The Rose Hills* 24" H X 30" W Oil on Canvas August
Is A Steady Beat Of Heat, Limp Flowers And Random Showers. I Linger In The Shade And Paint, Recalling Cooler Springs, And Other Chilly Things, Waiting For Time To Open Autumn’s Gate, And Inevitable Winter, When As Usual, I’ll Miss August’s Sultry Kiss.  Nature
Abhors A Vacuum, And So Do I. Combing Long Hair From The Carpet, Moping Flour From The Floor, And I Must Dust. Each Task Brings More Yet, Filling The Trash With Crumbs Of Regret That Housework Is Such A Bore. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
August 2024
|
RSS Feed