Yet, If I Were a Painter

To paint the world tonight would keep the palette sparse; the stars

Blotted by ebony and silver sequins pelting cars

Invisible, save for two red-gold circles and a hiss

Before they disappear into the night’s darkened abyss

Outside my window all is black; thought etches what is there

For sight is veiled by midnight’s shroud, tossed black upon the air

And you might just as easily be standing at my right

Where the bedraggled wind-torn pine keeps vigil day and night

Sometimes when nights are weighted with the heaviness of you

Then wondering and praying are the best that I can do

But, if I were a painter I would feather, dab and brush

A door from here to there against this nearly-midnight hush

I don’t need a picture of you sitting next to me

The one I keep is in my heart and in my memory

Yet, if I were a painter I would splash against the deep

The color of your eyes once more before they fell asleep

© Janet Martin