The Artist's Palette

Maybe it will be this year
that I ask Mum if she wants to come
with us.
I can just hear the motor humming, ready
for another surprise--a cruise through
the "country".
He might carefully put her in
the front seat and
off we will go,
as the blazing colors of
red, brown, and orange streak across
her vision crackling in the dirt, those
blinding colors of autumn.
I've never seen such a beautiful
day, she might claim.
Yes, Mum. An artist's palette,
I could tell her.

The hues of autumn
find me behind you without regret.

You have the sunflowers of August
at your back,
and the grand spice colors of the
earth in your September steps.


We need not go far.
Just out into the county state
park, pulling her out and
letting her sit in fancy stirrups as if
on an expensive Arabian horse,
putting a small, warm blanket
across her lap.
She'd be tongue-tied.
She proudly brags when she is
in the" country ",her
Granddad was a farmer,
and even the corn stalks make
her stir.
She could flash a daring smile
and just say, Next week I'd love
to be at the seaside, but I will never
forget where I'm from. Maples, yes,
gorgeous maple trees.


The trees do not look
so forlorn, but they will too soon . . .
Better ask her.