The Artist of Time

Felt tipped pens hiss,
pencils crackle, spraying black
ash in circles like the darkness
of expired hours.

A palette of paints, oils of
blue, yellow, and brown;
a thin brush drops slowly down
the canvas like hourglass sand.

A thoughtful lean, a cat-like
smile, a feline stretch
of tired satisfaction; the passing
purr of a breeze gone by.

Remnants of work, now idle;
pens, pencils, and palettes lay still
like warming hands
over a fire gone cold.