The Artist and the Poet

I sat myself upon a hill to get a better view, Of the valley down below wet with morning dew. As I pondered my first lines, an artist came around, With paints and brushes in his bag, an easel on the ground. I watched him go about his task of setting all just right, Mixing up his colors to let his brush take flight. In my mind I sought the words and phrases to convey, The beauty of the landscape – the wonder of the day. And so we started working as if within a rage, He upon his canvas and I upon my page. His colors leapt from off his brush at seeming lightning speed, My metaphors were dancing ‘round, happy to be freed. Broad, his strokes that made the sky and little squiggle lines, That made the shapes of bushes and tall and slender pines. And, green, the meadow brought to life with yellow daffodils, Orange, the leaves of hardwood trees scattered on the hills. My pen, too, was hard at work describing what was there, The wildlife and the fauna, the smell upon the air. Little things I brought to life for everyone to see, Singing birds and butterflies – a single bumblebee. So lifelike was the artist’s work, I had to give him praise. He asked to read my poem and, after, seemed amazed. For we had told the story of this valley and the wood, The artist and the poet, so much alike we stood.