The Artist

Past the long ages of changing scenes
Where time doth hang as mellow screens
A painter is spied, and holding brush
Is eager drawing a picture of hush :
The white hot haze of summer's day
As men in water and grass lay.
The artist since in grave has lain
But someone takes to painting again.
With guile he turns the painter the painting,
Betakes to canvas : a form that's breathing.
And chooses upon Life for hues of his palette,
And strokes of brush in the hands of his Fate.
Yet spurning Time, that canvas cloth's standing robust
While this greater painting but reduce to dust.





I dedicate this sonnet to Haiku.