History in Color

She sits alone and paints her years away

Each sigh and stroke a bandage for her blissful pain

The darkest thought: what if she ran away?

and left the room of colors behind.


The reds speak of the heart she lost

one summer in the evenings

the passion that ran wild like rain

is scarlet splatters on her ceiling

when the oranges of sunsets is the only murmur that she gives

her brush can paint the moments she has lived.


Gray hairs fall from her furrowed brow each night

While she sits and stirs her tea in candlelight

and stares around at the beauty that never satisfies

The paint can’t patch up holes, but it tries.


The greens speak of the boys she raised

who grew up just like their father

who ran wild in creeks and tracked in mud

but would pause to say they loved her

when the yellows of trucks and training wheels is the only murmur that she gives

her brush can paint the moments she has lived.


When she wakes up early mornings

she can see the moon outside

and it makes her think of life and death and

makes her wonder why

and when she wakes up in the middle of the night

she’s forgotten what she knew

but her paintbrush kept a log

of all the thoughts that she came to.


The blues speak of the cold five years

when he left her there at home

when her boys would cry themselves to sleep

and she’d lay in bed alone


The grays speak of the latest days

when she could barely see the weather

but she could paint her life into picture frames

and that could sometimes heal her better

than the pills and treatments the doctors push

that she never gives a chance


so all the ones who dearly love her

just sit back and watch her paint brush dance.