For once its brush gleans the cheek,
the lines on eyes begin to speak.
Of merriment.
Of sorrow.
A butterfly kiss.
Of Saturdays.
Of love, and the things we miss.

Its paints are wild,
like Picasso’s dream,
the kind of thing you may have seen,
while gazing into your sylvan stream.

Time does brush, and stir the hazy dream,
of skin so pure as virgin cream.
Into bark, and torrents of a nightmare scream
…some time.