and
then a sheaf of papers
appeared
upon my table
glowing
through the coffee vapors
a
stack of colors without a label
each
page displayed a palette
a
royal family of hues
they
ranged from gray to scarlet
to
black and white and a thousand blues
the
words were few
and
the numbers scattered
‘midst
these colorful clues
in
hidden patterns
as
if I tumbled there and wandered
through
the coils of every image
I
swung on tinted ropes and pondered
this
grand and subtle artistic scrimmage
her
fingerprints and brushstrokes
dense
within the layers
painted
sweat and breath and big jokes
I
felt her kisses and heartfelt prayers
the
words were tossed like croutons
on
a rainbow feast
each
page a neon lexicon
of
south and north, west and east
of
fruited sky in summer
a
perfumed city in the spring
the
howl of white in winter
a
hundred seasons all did sing
I
wandered to the brink
of
her inspired work
but
still it seemed I missed a link
some
secret sense to this cirque
So
in a dream she told me,
“Now
go and count the pages.”
I
bounded from the bed at three
flipping
quickly through all the stages
And
these numbers, they did append
to
three hundred sixty-five
to
a page a day she attend
for
a year this way her art did thrive
she
inscribed in crayon, enamel and ink
the
purest nugget of every day
so
this record superseded “what I think”
and
became a melody of the quotidian ballet
as
if she became the voice
for
the way each day unfolded
the
way of light – her only choice
for
how these pictures were molded
and
she did sculpt these sunbowed swirls
these
lacey etchings and abstract cartoons
she
told the year-long story of the world
of
oceans and forests, suns and moons
She
gave me a year in a book
she
astounded me with this amazing gift!
So
in humble inspired response, this pen I took
and
wrote: “By your diary my life did shift!”
I
left her a message at the café today:
“You
gave me the gift of a year-and-your-passion,
now
let me take you somewhere new, faraway,
and
accept this treasure in the proper fashion.”