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A Painter with Only Brown Paint



There are places I’ve been

that always smell like rain;

the air tastes like puddles,

as it tumbles to my lungs.

Dozens of ponds lay in the mud,

And play high-pitched notes

With my shoes as I walk through them.



The wind floats high,

too distant to feel it,

but loud enough to hear.

It whines,

Argues with trees,

Shakes bare branches

Above my head.



Sporadically, the wind dips down

With an unceasing moan

And tickles my scalp,

fingers the gel in my hair,

and laughs at my distressful vanity.

Dead leaves fly at my face.



Leaves lie in places I’ve been,

half-decomposed,

thick, mushy, almost like dirt.

They stink like rain,

stick to my shoes

as I trod over them.

I grab on to a rotten branch for support;

its bark falls off in to my hand.

Bugs crawl on to my wrist;

They smell like dirt,

and rain.