Etude

The sun rises, a rose
that suffuses the sky.
Color that could be singing

spills onto the ponds,
petals the water
with shades of waking.

Flamingos rise in waves of rose,
great wings flapping
pink against the sun.

They feather the sky,
settle in the stubby pastels
from Martine's cardboard box.

Her crayon makes quick work,
and the paper comes alive.
Birds emerge beneath her hands.

I pick up my bow and play
a little scherzo, an etudes,
a rondeau, and the notes

come full circle as Martine draws
the moon and a night so close
and large, it can hold us.

I should have been an artist.
I don't know where to go.
I don't know how to stay.