Poetry Thursday ~ The Painting

I remember
Sitting beside him and his guitar.
That was all he needed on his journey.
I held my journal between my sun soaked fingers.
That was all I needed on mine.

The sun was setting
In the distance between an island and the shore,
As though they had separated themselves to make room
For the vibrant bursts
Of oranges and purples and pinks.
As though they knew how perfect
The golden sphere
Would look slowly dropped between them.
As though they were both
The painting and
The painter.

We told our stories
Over the background of his songs,
And more people gathered around
To share their stories,
Their songs.
Soon we were a harmonious
Group of birds
Chirping and chattering in
The arrival of the moon.

He sat above us
In the hut next to mine
Smoking his corn cob pipe.
I watched him
For much longer than I had realized
Until he looked down to notice me
Looking up.

He nodded.

I nodded back
And smiled
As he returned his gaze back out towards the sky.

I followed his example.

For I too
Longed to be
Both the painting
And the painter
Of my life.