This Is What I See

As we drive I look at everything
Passing by like streaks of color.
Yet, like a clear picture I see them:
Branches like hands reaching
To the sky that will never fill their fingers.
Hopeful in the spring and summer
They sprout and bloom so extravagantly.
But down go their leaves in the fall,
Weighed down by the sadness and grief
Of not ever touching the sky.
I see stores some happily built,
Some sad and distorted from aging
Or by gruesome abuse,misuse.
All wanting to tell their stories.
How they came to be and how they are occupied.
Some of them houses to really great people,
Some of them covering murderous lies.
The car windows are down
Allowing an invasion from the air outside,
Rushing in disturbing the tranquil hairs on my head.
Music tasteful and alive escape the stereo
Taking hold of my emotions.
My mood is lifted, blood pumping.
Made better by the voice of my companion,
Fighting to break through,
Sometimes off key but otherwise so entrancing.
We make it safely home just in time.
I throw myself on the bed and close my eyes,
Dreaming of these things,
Of a painting I have yet to begin.

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