When the sun’s set and one can see the early streaks of a dusk sky,
I sit on on my porch and listen to the rain as it falls around my dry self.
The air gets that washed-away scent as if all the smells that were there previous have been erased.
Like a canvas that had a picture painted on it, getting washed clean off.
It could have been the most beautiful picture, or one that makes me sad.
But it’s gone now, either way, and tomorrow there’s a new painting to be had.
I don’t know if it’ll be ugly,
I don’t know if it’ll be a repeat or something new-
But I know that a picture will be painted once more on that rain-washed canvas.
Perhaps this time I’ll pick up the brush,
Add my own strokes here and there,
And help to paint myself the day I most long to have.
Then, when my masterpiece is complete,
I’ll bring the canvas under my porch and set it beside me-
Where it’ll stay safe and dry and never again be washed-away,
And my days will forever more be like the picture I painted when I picked up the brush.