Why I Love Being Outside

If Vincent said I could, I would,

Step straight into Starry Night,

Roam quiet hills above sleeping rooftops,

And study brilliant, dancing luminaries until morning.

When morning came, I’d meet Mona for breakfast,

Share stories until noon,

Then I’d trip around Monet’s garden,

Skipping rocks at water lilies.

Would you believe me if I told you

That I have been inside a painting?

That this very afternoon,

I walked on a carpet of gold leaf brushstrokes?

I saw the ingenious design of line,

On a gnarled holly bush trunk,

Parallel planks on a yellow, wooden porch,

And curvy swirls of sepia earth.

As errant watercolor cloud drops fell from above,

I imagined my Artist, paused in thought,

Holding His brush, considering His work.

I felt His breath in a gust of unseasonably warm wind.

This is good, dear Artist.

What You’ve painted is absolutely beautiful.

There is no frame to contain this work,

So I go out and let Your canvas surround me.

When I marvel at the shimmery green

Of a duck’s head,

Or watch the sky’s hues

Shift and sway on a lake,

It reminds me that I’m not just a visitor

Trampling through,

But I am Your art as well,

And this is good too.

Again, I say,

This is good, dear Artist.

What You’ve painted is absolutely beautiful.

There is no frame to contain this work,

Let Your canvas surround me.

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