In the free verse poetry, “She is Abstract Art”.
I can sit with my paint brush and canvas, I can paint her as art, even in her darkest hour, in her foggy light. I can draw the endless imagery of her shape, form, or line. And all the while she (nature) offers me all the seasons delight. Even if the day is cold, or the day is hot, she still gives me her beauty if I just open my eyes and mind. I can paint her abstract art.
She is Abstract Art
On the old wooden park bench.
I sit from a far gazing at her.
Her visual language astounds me,
every time I’m here.
She has every shape, forms of color
and lines to create.
The seasons tend to be her paint brush.
Yeilding a degree of independence.
One can see it everywhere.
She offers a grand illusion
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