Before I knew the words to describe a rainbow,
I could mix the colors of heaven,
of mountains; of Arizona in the spring.
Each morning in darkness before the molten Phoenix sun
would crest the parched desert,
Papa would sneak out the door
quiet as a whisper
to paint this house or that castle.
With one eye around the blinds covering the window
I heard more than I saw.
Sounds my Papa made loading his royal blue
1948 Ford pick-up [truck] with ladders and brushes,
turpentine, putty, tarps and cans.
Oh, those magical cans of paint
that could change the heart of a room
from sullen to sunlight
from dreary to delicious.
Some knights ride into a little girl’s heart
on horseback or steed
large, tall, strong with white mane flowing.
My knight drove a short, wide blue ‘48 pick-up
with a three-speed stick shift on the column
and white wall tires;
pulling a bed filled with cans of colors streaming
for all the rainbows that surprised us after a desert storm.
For all the saguaros, yuccas, Joshua trees in need of renewal.
for one little girl
who wanted her room the blue of the sky
after angels washed it with an August storm.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd