In Amber Footprints

I watch a world of painters
as they drip their hearts upon
all the walls and floors and paper
until those hearts are gone.

I watch them brushing, with their hands
stained like sun and rain and earth,
over phantom thoughts and recollections
of ashen tears and singing mirth.

All along their canvas paths,
dyed by years of painting by,
I see bursts of iris, violet,
and a tiger lily eye

that's whisper-roaring all its dreams
and what it sees in amber footprints
dancing past on rose gold waves
from one lovely, lonely instance.

One man paints with scarlets
and a burnt sienna brown,
while another trails cerulean
like the sky is falling down.

A child walks with starlight
pooling in her skipping wake,
while her friend is laced with shadows
like a dam about to break.

All these painters, streaked by life,
drift by on iridescent sails
while I rest within this wild world
and watch as my own painting pales.