The Painter

I watch the old man whisk paint across canvas. forward and backwards, his brush kisses in staccato strokes. lines grow into shapes, and accents transform them into figures. as if in a dream world, the flat white surface comes alive with color. daylilies dance in cadence with the bubbling beat of cloud formations. a child in a grass stained sundress twirls about on her tip toes, complimenting the sunflowers cresting the horizon. grain seeds flutter through the air on their tiny travels, winking at me with the shimmering prisms of early morning dew as sun beams tap them for the slightest of moments. (though as soon as you catch a glimpse of their existence, the warm beams release them again to go about their gentle ways). my mind wanders the dusty trail leading back into the distance. the old man reaches for his dark paints, and whisps of smoke start to ascend from behind the pool of yellow sunflowers. i follow the summons of the soft greys climbing higher and higher, promising a full meal for the void in my stomach. i pass the little girl, still twirling about in seamless harmony with the air we breathe, and i begin to understand the meaning of the images enveloping my mind. my eyes sees only what the old man paints, and he only paints the contents of his sweetest dreams. i have no perception of the passing time, for as long as the sun still shines and the girl still dances, this world is in peace.