I am the explosion of color before the setting sun disappears.

I am the final display of magnificence before twilight descends.

My color-splashed canvas is brief – a transitory existence.

One of a kind golden photos that are easily missed.

I am an ever changing portrait that continues to unfold –

beautiful and breathtaking, I am a sight to behold.

I am both a moment in time and every story ever told.

A twisted tapestry of light and elements refined.

Everything that we wish to be, exquisitely defined.

As the invisible brush and palette blend, an awareness washes over me –

not one of melancholy, but guided urgency.

Before the brush and palette are put away a final time

I too will live vibrantly and outwardly – living a life that is uniquely mine.

Stop. Wait a minute. Is this really what I should be doing

on a Friday, late afternoon?

Are these meandering lines a frivolous waste of fleeting time?

Surely, they are, and this pointless poet should just walk away –

to find a greater purpose, a greater plan for her day.

Many things left undone and many thoughts left unsaid

while my fingers and metaphoric mind continue their dance.

I should quiet the lyrical melody that keeps my Dell humming and

puts me in a temporary trance.

What is the point of blending words, rhythm, and rhyme?

After all, it’s music that only I can hear, a song that is only mine.

Instead of clicking the black keys and making words appear

I should slip on gloves and to my garden, start tending.

When I am done with that chore,

I should grab the mop and start scrubbing my floor.

If I start now, I will still have time to fold socks

before preparing dinner, with fresh veggies I must chop.

Those tasks, and more, like saving the world,

have a greater purpose, a greater plan for my day.

Much greater than the frivolous lines filling up this page.

Before I save the world,

I will grab those gloves, and that mop,

but first, just a few more lines I must type.

Because, I can’t stop the words from spilling out.

So, for now I will let the melody play and the words escape.

Words that have learned how to dance

over and around the shoulds and can’ts.

And that is how this pointless poet prefers it to be,

because long after our gardens die,

our floors need replacing,

and our socks need mending,

the world will still need saving.

So poets, let the quiet melodies continue,

the spilling of words.

Because frivolous lines, like a fleeting canvas,

will endure.

Copyright © 2020 Michele Lee Sefton. All Rights Reserved.