Muddied Canvas

I forget the color of those eyes,
that hair, that sweater that was your favorite
when we walked,
hot with summer’s heat
and the shade of green
you draped over my shoulders
while we sat on the rocks of Lake Athabasca
and watched rainbow trout
shatter the surface in tiny pinpricks of prisms
as they tasted air.

And, then, they were gone
faster than I could blink
and I am left with a brown/gray/taupe
dull splotch on a once sharp canvas
like you get when you add too much water.

And, then you were gone,
in a gaudy yawn prior to that next spring
when colors could have meant something more
that dead and moldering things
with no sign of life
and where promises lose impetus
in the rattle of yesterday’s brilliant wishes.

I do not wish you back.

I simply crave color of new hope
where once writhed old promises
in death-rattles of hollow stalks
that tempt nothing to return to those shores.

It is best to paint pretty pictures about pretty things.
This was not pretty, is not pretty
and no amount of thick rich tincture
can oil this back to life.

I think you are dead.  I am not sure.
You did not tell me you were dying,
you simply said you were ill.
And, as is my wont, I painted pictures
of your hesitant return after your long goodbye
but I felt no rush of high color any more.

I drowned myself in gray lap of that lake
and your leaving left a gray trail that is overlaid
with too many layers of paint.

I think it was the fish that caused it.
I leaned in too far and saw forever fade.