A Year of Poems – Day 145

The leaves on a tree are growing as we speak

Slowly integrating
sharp sticks into their fullness –
Sistine Chapel domes,
ceilings painted inside out.

Imperceptibly expanding
from hard reality to the soft green dots
which blur the air in pointillism
more profound than any of the French masters.

Forever painting
the leaves in every fine detail
colors never normalizing
finished at every second

masterpieces lost in glorious obscurity.