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Gentle brown eyes, dusted with gold.
Thick lashes shading the sun of day.
What thoughts do you have my friend,
inside such deep concentration?
Your worn brushes sweeping across the canvas,
breathless touches, hurricane strokes.
You squeeze out globs of glossy paint.
I smell it mixed with your sweat.
I can still hear you sometimes, inhaling deeply,
as if you were here still, as you once were.
Inhaling deeply, dipping your brushes into the ocean of your dreams,
splashing the colors you saw into the sky of your imagination.
Two friends breathing. Music on the radio.
Birds. A Japanese garden.
Today I am penetrated by the memory of our park,
of the flowers, of the birds singing, the smells,
sun, you, your brown eyes, dusted with gold.
Thoughts of you, paint smeared, your laughter ringing out,
your great hand caressing the canvas, hurricane quick.
Today dear friend, memories of you, embrace my soul.
You engraved my retinas with a tenderness I had never experienced,
you blinded me to everything ugly, sighted me to everything beautiful.
I will miss you forever.
(Written Jan. 2002 in memory of
Bruce Kueffer)
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