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The
artist brought a canvas,
To
the front part of my lawn.
And
with him brought an easel,
To
set his canvas on.
A
light oak colored box,
Contained
his paints and board,
A
Thermos full of coffee,
No
detail was ignored.
He
wore a charcoal coat,
That
came down to his knees.
A
fur lined rectangular hat,
Saved
his ears from the strong breeze.
Flannel
pants of gray,
Below
his coat were seen .
The
only thing that did not match,
Were
boots of olive green.
The
sun was shining brightly,
Yellow
- Orange in shade
On
freshly fallen snow,
Such
intensity it made.
The
sky a washed out powder blue,
With
clouds of cotton balls.
The
purest day of winter,
Just
after new snow falls.
And
there just in the distance,
The
artists' subject stood.
An
old red barn snow covered,
Cleared
within the woods.
The
barn in need of paint,
Gray
tainted wood exposed.
The
paint still on was flaking,
A
job for spring supposed.
The
roof was missing shingles,
Of
colors brown and red.
And
one could just imagine,
The
snow inside instead.
Near
the barns top were two windows,
Looking
out a loft of hay.
One
was nearly perfect.
The
other pane had broken away.
The
artists' hands now freezing,
Poured
a cup of coffee.
And
raised to his nose, both hands enclosed,
It
was a sight to see.
His
beard and mustache brown,
With
subtle shades of gray.
Encircled
his mouth, you saw only his lips
And
ice crystals formed the same way.
A
couple of minutes had passed,
His
hands now no longer numb.
He
again turned his attention,
To
completing the job he wished done.
The
main idea was completed,
It
was time for details, and depth.
Adding
pastel shades of color,
Like
the fog from his own breath.
On
the barn the peak was full exposed,
The
lower left corner the same.
And
all around the windows,
Ice
was pressed against the panes.
On
the roof and against the door,
And
by the trees, drifts were seen.
A
charcoal gray defined the depth,
Against
trees of evergreen.
The
snow although the purest of white,
Had
other subtle shades.
Like
yellows, pinks, and blues.
Worked
in to show a glaze.
A
single set of footprints,
Led
out of the barn door.
And
one could only think,
It
was entered some time before.
The
artist was now finished.
He
admired it with pride.
He
was cold and frozen,
But
he was warm inside.
We've
both painted pictures,
Though
it sounds absurd.
The
artist using paints and brush,
Me,
I chose just words.
©
Copyright D.R.Xander 2/96
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