Ephemeral


I am a tousling wind,
Frisking through the wild, vast field;
Of grass with morning dew,
Of flowers in springtime hue.
The mountains-power-wielding.
The sunlight-strong, unyielding.

I am a blank canvass
Awaiting the strokes of color:
The vibrant red in love,
The cold-gripped black in grief.
Splashes of life-conniving.
The dreams of gold-fulfilling.

But
Though I hold sight
The core of things-
The beauty, the pain,
The luster, the stain
-I find none in me.

Perhaps,
I am
A mere, hopeless drift;
A wind without direction.
Perhaps,
I am
A stagnant, tired hand;
A painter with no creation.

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