Powder of Wonders

Magically produced to shadow a sincerest of death
I come to it; outside it lies, guarding the bones of my window that quake in its boots
A shiver, a curse, to all who disbelieve
All who vocalize their woes
It laughs at them, biting at their exaggeration-smeared noses
As I gambol in the fairy dust of winter
A blank canvas, waiting for me to paint
Paint with ecstasy and a flying spirit
Each stroke flowing freely as it reaches the surface
As I soar in my magic-powered flying machine
As I inhale the drying paint, cold to the touch
The falling dismisses, foreshadowing its departure
Before me is a painting, artwork, finished
I realize it’s gone but will visit me for another time
It will cover the death of a season’s scorch, ruining my art work
And live on
It will seek vengeance on the disbelievers and nip at their unimpressed digits
And welcome me into its arms
I wait for the canvas, for me to come to
Come to it to inhale the incense of its paints set before me
Its magic radiating and guiding me for the brush strokes
Wake me when my window is alive
When it is back again
So I may, once more, dance in its field and trust in its watch
So it may safe guard me from “the sincerest of death”
My powder of wonders