Writing Down Street Puddles

There is color in my veins, Color that speaks. I see it in the street puddles after long summer rains, A music amongst a concrete wonderland of color- In the moment when color becomes song, And enters the body, My writer’s pen stabs without hesitation At the innocently blank page, while it stares up at me, Waiting on the wings of idle transformation. The color seeps from hand to pen, onto paper- Where life succumbs to expression; my expression. A healing not known by medicine, nor by hatred. The color grows amongst such unheeded life, My veins grow warm as the drum and soul thirst for more. I can give only what the song may sing, For expression may not last without time, Bearing down on its heels. There is color in my veins, Color that speaks. As the sun and heat dry the street puddles, And the color fades along with song The body may no longer dance upon the page- Not with pen, not the poet. Yet rain must come again! And so will the color warm in my body, and the song begin to play; The streets will crowd with puddles of rainbow voices and my heart will dance. I write, because I cannot ignore the color of my heart. The expression lasts as long as it remains free, And as the streets dry and I lay down my pen, I smile- For the rain will come soon, and I must be ready to write, The color of my world.