For my friend Wayne, displaying his painting talents on canvas in far Northwest Canada.
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Where Wayne creates and paints.
It is said that old men paint in winter,
Remembering warmer times, years,
Winter is not kind to bones and joints,
But winter does not really know old men,
There lies with in their soul an acceptance,
A reflection upon invested years of age,
The knowledge of journey and time,
Theirs is an awareness of that march,
A travail, a struggle to their goal,
Old men know what those lesser do not,
Life takes more than it gives,
Life watches, waiting for it’s moment,
It is the jester of their childish follies,
A trap door to be sprung without warning,
Their life, words, and painted pictures, leftovers,
The satisfaction of having been at the table,
How will they be remembered, these old men,
Viewed in the springs of their youth,
Interpretation of life on canvas,
Accumulated tablets of poetry,
How will winter remember them,
And, when your cold dark night comes,
What will you paint in your winter.
©2011, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 