The Invisible Painter

On the undulating meadows stands a cottage small
Painted in hues of red and green.
Next to it a tree stands sentry with a phlegmatic air.
With a mischievous air, the clouds dip low
Over the cottage green and red.
One cloud looks like Joseph Roulin with a fedora hat.
Is Vincent Van Gogh around
Painting the Roulins, one member after another?
Another creeps towards the hat, and tilts it naughtily.
One ancient looking cloud watches with a stiff upper lip
Over itself unable to take a grip.
Clouds and more clouds standing in queues
And an invisible painter splashing hues.

My heart beats frantically
Trying to be heard above the din of existence.
A cloudlet rumbles with rambunctious hilarity
Side –splitting.
The sky throbs with unsung songs
Befitting.
With a shimmering lyricism the air is replete
From the shrubs, squirrels dart in and out, on tiny feet
Stop in their tracks, trying to listen to my heart beats.
And the invisible painter paints on with a frenzied brilliance.
Unfazed by an itinerant songster singing of life’s evanescence.

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