A Painter’s Daughter

Before I knew the words to describe a rainbow,

I could mix the colors of heaven,

            of mountains; of Arizona in the spring.

Each morning in darkness before the molten Phoenix sun

            would crest the parched desert,

Papa would sneak out the door

            quiet as a whisper

            to paint this house or that castle.

Peeking…

            With one eye around the blinds covering the window

I heard more than I saw.

Sounds my Papa made loading his royal blue

            1948 Ford pick-up [truck] with ladders and brushes,

            turpentine, putty, tarps and cans.

Oh, those magical cans of paint

            that could change the heart of a room

            from sullen to sunlight

            from dreary to delicious.

Some knights ride into a little girl’s heart

            on horseback or steed

            large, tall, strong with white mane flowing.

My knight drove a short, wide blue ‘48 pick-up

            with a three-speed stick shift on the column

            and white wall tires;

            pulling a bed filled with cans of colors streaming

for all the rainbows that surprised us after a desert storm.

For all the saguaros, yuccas, Joshua trees in need of renewal.

Mostly though…

            for one little girl

            who wanted her room the blue of the sky

            after angels washed it with an August storm.

About these ads