The Discarding of Wisdom

A day no true artist would dare to paint, Breathtaking colors by God’s hand alone, Spoiled only by a dark and lonely figure Dropping tears on a freshly mowed grass lawn. A nostalgic woman of former times When a friend might come and sit a spell, This, though, is year Two Thousand Eight or Nine, Belying that “No man is an Island.” These Islands move like shells loose floating, Privately on streets, behind closed colored doors, Concealing problems they try to erase, With their solitary searches for grace. While wisdom’s left over figures of life, Sit amongst God’s colors and doze alone.