Plum Grove
Brush flying solo
Old man pauses
Disappears again
Whiling away hours
In a distant summer grove
Sheltered by grape vines
His lone companion
The brush, his thoughts,
Time incandescent
Sweeping blue birds
Cloud-swept fields
His canvas, a stretch
Of stars, living, drying
In sweltering heat
A scent of plums
Taking him elsewhere
Back, some place
When life was young

© 2014 S. Michaels
Light Years


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