Wednesday, April 28, 2010

day seventeen.


he made chalk murals,
his hands always caked
with the ash of his art.

pinks and blues and
greens, sifting together
to form grey coating against
his working palms.

he drew a rising sun,
unfolding from the sidewalk,
to shine on forgotten flower beds.

he snuck into playgrounds
of inner-city schools,
to draw happy pictures,
something beautiful
for children who lived
in a world of locks
to wake up to.

and one night,
he crept into your driveway
and drew a woman with bare shoulders,
her back a graceful arch
her hair, fiery red
whipping around in
imaginary wind.

1 comment:

YourOasis said...

beautiful. loved the last verses. :)