The Creek

The twist of stream at which I stand
could be a canvas thoroughly planned;
sweeping strokes of raw sienna
layer on a bed of sand,
and saffron blossoms spatter thick
with a casual flick of the artist's hand.
 
A brush's tongue has stenciled in
the willow's absinthe boughs,
licking on the downy lace
that droops in languid lines to trace
the chiaroscuro of amber shade
cast upon the canvas face
 
and the seeping flush that softly spreads,
like a tea stain, above my head
is the dove gray hue of a docile breeze
teasing leaves of verdigris.
 
A fuschia wash the very shade
of birdsong winks upon the air,
the veridian voice of dragonflies
drones in darts of emerald rare,
and apricot currents that ripple and run
are tickled by bristles of camelhair
until they laugh in bursts of sun.
 
Am I even real,
or a mix of pigments molded
by an artist's light caprice?
For I feel I've stepped beyond a frame
into a masterpiece.