Waterfall



Waterfall

I am a child, with a paintbrush in first grade

A colored room, with tools along the walls

And all that I can think of is the mighty mighty labor

I must start


I’m told to paint a cat

But all my shapes are funny

And I know a great big oval with a tail 

Is not a cat, no cat at all… 

I manage just to color in, and stripe it 

And make do


But here I sit again, and I am restless

And paint again I must, but paint won’t do!

What once was but a trickle is a torrent

Coursing, streaming, needing somewhere to break through…


What fills a mind, what pounds a heart, except impressions?

Colors, images, that swirl like falling leaves

A roaring waterfall that gushes through my fingers

Each moment never noted, but perceived

And far too many gone to be retrieved...

And far too many gone to be retrieved.


But how the brush is chunky and unwieldy! 

How the words, like babbling toddlers’ tottered steps

Fall flat and sideways, never stacking neatly

One thought upon another, on the next


How paint is wasted, how it dries, 

How I need a thousand tries

How I just need thought and time

If I could only craft a rhyme… 


If I could only paint a thought

If I could only catch a dream

If I could only use my sieve 

To capture water from this stream

If I could only

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