It’s cold in the house, old and drafty, flaking paint, old lead windows.
The small alcove you’ve made into a studio, looks on the patch of trees,
Between us and the next house, the highway, the gas station and market.
A patch of trees, majestic and proud, even bare against a grey, indifferent sky.
Cold, so you have your blue hoodie, tattered and loved, and your teal beanie.
You have a little smile on your lips, as you brush the colors of your dreams
Upon the canvas, lost in thought, lost in dreams, lost in the moment of light.
You’re painting angels and stars again; for the moment the blackness is gone.
I sit at the kitchen table, working on my writing, drinking hot, black coffee,
But still looking up at you, at the light again in your soft eyes, the glow again
In your face, and again filled with joy as you create and make visions of your dreams.
A pleasure and a play again, not simply exorcism of madness and fear and hatred.
The sun is coming through the grey sky, and shines it’s favor on you,
Through the old windows, a too perfect moment, a halo on your sweet head.
A gold coin, a morning like this, a peaceful time in the dark days of our world,
A gold coin to buy passage across a storm ravaged sea, to make it again to this,
A perfect and calm morning, full of love and creation.