It’s the field filled with colorful berries,
Strawberries, raspberries and blue,
Where the paintings are always found –
That’s Field 122.
There is a worker I see
Picking fruit in the sun,
But he can’t be the artist –
He can’t possibly be the one-
Who paints such landscapes-
The most vibrant colors I’ve ever seen –
Hopeful blue, melting red,
Clearest black and peaceful green.
But he works the field alone,
I see no one else around,
And every single morning-
Beside the road-
A new incredible painting is found.
He has no easel, no brushes
No multicolored paint kit.
It can’t possibly be him…
Does he burst those berries and use the pulp
For the paint he needs?
Does he clean his mess up with the leaves
Of those pesky, awful weeds?
Can HE be the Artist of Field 122-
Working among the berry-filled rows?
In between –
The hopeful blue, melting red,
Clearest black and peaceful green?