Why I Write: The Way It Allows Me To See

You see a painting, and you easily deem its beauty true, But I see none other than words, words that render my love of writing something altogether new. / I see roots of silver, rare boughs of azul, Colors arranged across canvas like bolts of pastel tulle. / Here they mingle, unearthly and mystical paired with homey fabric’s touch, In the shape of a tree, or the artist’s whimsical rendition of as much. / For it is not just a tree with these paintbrush strokes so slender and fine, But rather a manifestation of imagination over time. / I believe there is a poem that starts, With words of wisdom that ever in my heart I feel smart, / “I think that I shall never see, A poem as lovely as a tree.” / But I must say, only once will I ever find this statement unraveled at a painting’s design. After all, this tree was none other than poetry defined. / And for this knowledge, this story I see that another onlooker may not, I thank my love of words and their creation of magical things wrought.