How I wish that I could paint
the shape of each cloud in the sky;
And how to shade each rounded wisp
as they lazily float by.
I wish I knew which hue would show
the depth of eternal blue
That hangs overhead each day I walk
in the country to see the view.
Yes, I yearn to brush the strokes,
to somehow record what I see:
The golds and reds of each falling leaf,
the greens of the moss on the tree.
Browns and grays would be the rocks
upon which stand the saints.
Then silver and gold for a sun-setted lake;
O! How I wish I could paint!
And I’ve seen it done,
so I know it can be done!
But I just don’t know how.
So for now I’ll run;
through these golden fields I’ll run,
And just enjoy what I see right now!
Written while sitting on a rock near Granny’s “1st Lake”, just east of the house. For several years, I thought of this as my best-ever poem. Some readers might still say it is.