The Gift (In Your Hands)
This piece I wrote for a friend who paints, but does not have much faith in art.
|The paint touches the parchment,
Like two lover’s lips,
Minding the beauty in this world,
Encapsulated a moment never to be forgotten,
And nothing seems to exist,
Outside the boundaries,
Of that bold wooden frame.
There are those times when it seems to be,
Lost, in the boisterous sounds of life,
But the talent always resides in those hands,
With a spark of a stroke,
The skill slowly remembers like muscle memory,
Creating, capturing, celebrating,
And every time the brush makes it mark,
The pencil stencils in silhouetted lines,
The charcoal smears that perfect white,
A fraction of time is suspended,
And those around stare to ponder,
As they see through your eyes,
And you perhaps give the greatest gift,
Emotion, pouring from the precious chambers,
Of their hearts, whether happy or sad,
A smile will sketch across each ones’ face.
© Copyright 2010 wookibus (UN: somaador3 at Writing.Com).
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