Painting without color.

I once knew a writer
that wrote the way a painter
Who never used color would
With a green thumb for art
And a hunger for vibrant brushes

That were never washed
In fear that they may stain white
Like an untouched canvas
Sterile in the snow

Whose vivid shade of blue was felt
In every wistful stroke
Like a drizzling rain
Amid the spring
Lightly mourning in the mist

And the deepest flush of red
Stolen from the strawberry fields
Hinted in the mix
Light alight by the fiercest flame

That captured the sunlight’s gold
In delight
And made lemon trees look dull
In contrast

A moon against the darkest shadow
Rich and brilliant
against the forests’ green
And the envy

I was knew a painter
That never used color
Who created the loveliest rhymes
In season
Beneath the envious moon
With starry eyes
On starry nights
And never knew it was art