He thought of the crayons
He had kept as a child
The dark burnt sierra, the bright yellow-green
The warming rose pink next to deep crimson red,
The light of the tan, the comfort of brown
And the flesh
Oh yes, and the flesh.
He thought of the finger-paints
Which he loved to use
Sticky and messy, carefree and fun
Sliding and gliding, caressing the paper,
The feel of the canvas just under his fingers
Creating joy in his art
As joy too, was created in him.
He thought of the watercolors
So thick and opaque
To which he gave water, to which he gave love
With the tip of his brush gently stroking the surface
To chase away the darkness; to bring back the brightness
Illuminating the soul
Within the painting.
He thought of the clay
It's rich, earthy smell
So supple and soft, so solid and still
That he kneaded so kindly, so tenderly within his palms
Forming and shaping, to the kiln to be taken
To be remade whole
In the fires of the heart.