Word painting

The tongue becomes the brush of what we want to hear

when we perceive the movement of sunlit colored curls
spreading across shoulders of bonnie frocked lasses
bending to touch the harebell--

when we feel the breezes in the green and yellow grasses
that push toward distant places where lime pulp trees stand
and shamrocks homestead among the goldenrod--

when we jump the rooted banks of the crooked, cloudy brook
and see the splash of sheeny, speckled trout below--

when we walk the smooth and crooked footpath,
taste the dust kicked up from feet of lads before us
hurrying to meet the waiting bonnie frocked lasses
reaching out to touch the harebell--

when we heed, hear--receive into the eye and ear--
the words that paint a picture when it is painted right.

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