On a crisp fall evening I heard the most peculiar thing,
when the trees swayed and the wind curled by.
There in picture frame reverberating as if to sing,
blues and greens, yellows and whites of night’s sky.

Stepping closer, gazing, straining silently to listen.
Then above the chorus, from the center of the swirl,
a voice cries sharply, disgusted, fading in the din.
“I suck” came a dejected lament from the star lit girl.

Looking about confuse, “who was that, who are you?”
Weeping followed sobbing, and that by a huffing sigh.
Again the voice cracked, “look here a smudge so blue..”
“Oh smudge, what is it, what causes tears this night?”

“Can you not see the shape and boldness of my figure?
These pigments stand out from all the other finer colors.”
My heart ached, my mind raced for words to give her,
but no words formed to sooth the wound so suffered.

My own conscious stands to form those sounds in my ear,
accused of lacking value. Words my constant companions,
beating drums, like marching songs throughout the years,
and only here today, saved by a love which never abandons.

“Smudge!” I cry, “There’s more to you than meets the eye!”
Backing up, embarrassed by my forwardness so confused,
and yet my eyes are blessed to see this sight, I cannot lie.
The signs are true, a master painter’s touch clearly used.