The hope is - there will never be an end

To the freedom which is here to spend

Quiet times whiling away the hours

Filling an easel with words of power



Which does stay and yet renew itself

Just by virtue of being here on shelf

From which - down any artist can pull

New shades of colors not thought of still



And then mix a few together on their palette

Or carefully mold new clay - or even maul it

As the artist does use their tools to astound

As they get ready to go yet a whole new round



On flights of fancy upon which they do fly

As they welcome a new day and force open eyes

All the better to deal with a whole new play

On their ever-extending easel - on each new day



- Tristram