I was blessed with the heart of an artist and the hands of a farmer with arthritis and a rusty bucket in which I cannot carry a tune. Entire symphonies, layered and deep intrude upon my musings and my sleep, but I have not the talent or training to write them down, nor the voice to bring them to life.
However, the world of words, not sundered from my life by any physical limitations, becomes the brush in my unsteady hand, the myriad colors upon my palette, the orchestra in my mind, and the chorus of my dream choir. I treasure the moments I am allowed to walk in that dream world, and find the mysteries waiting there for eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to embrace.
If I could write the music in my head,
And paint my words until they light the way,
Then dance unfettered, touching sky instead
Of letting all that beauty wash away.
If I could gather all the love I see,
I'd pour its essence deep upon the page,
So that the words alive inside of me,
Would live forever on the paper stage.
If I could sing an aria, profound
Enough to open all the wounded hearts
And souls, and share its loving healing sound,
I'd mend each broken spirit's fractured parts.
And though, my palette has but words, it seems
I'll paint upon that canvas in my dreams.