Ill constructed are the flowers…and, often prose.
An angst cloaks the dirt from my shivered window.
No comfort found when gazing from them…with bows in my hair.
How simple it would have been?
To glance about…upon this, a shaded afternoon.
Perhaps,even with a lightness that could promise pastels to a possible passerby.
Intrinsically, this soft hue, always falls short of my fingertips.
And, does not reflect my mind.
But in my hand…
big and bold, black and white, green and tan.
Impressed upon me…the water and color…for my land.
Hues for both woman and man.