Mountain Field Painting

When I was a child, I smeared azure blue paint onto dark concrete and turned the cold tarmac lemon yellow and emerald green. Then, I went to school and the Science Professor told me we dream in Black and White. So I dropped my brush, Closed my eyes and got a cubicle. Thirty years later, I opened my eyes Once again only to see That I had to paint myself back into a corner For it is there on the edge of the palette knife, the tip of a fan brush on white canvas where the answers live. For how can you really know anything until you paint it or see it painted? I took up my old brush And tried to render a watery vase of crimson roses. As I witnessed the radiant light bouncing through the thick curved lavender depression glass, I heard the silent roar of splattered glossy hues defeating the deafening cacophony of words Yes, Science Professor, You sir, may dream in black and white, but no, not me. My days are now suffused with Shimmering light, And at night, I dream in colors.