I watched my dad roll up his sleeves.
He bent over the paint can
Swirling the golden oil into the white.
Then brush and pail in hand he climbed the ladder.
It was the house’s North side getting a fresh face
this summer. East next summer.
I looked up and watched his art spread
board by board, section by section.
In the shade up and down he moved.
Side to side moving the paint dripped ladder.
Now lower, ladderless, on my level he looks me,
“Want to try?” “Yup!” I say, feeling useful.
“Left to right one, smooth, long stroke
then back again. Go ahead.”
I dip and spread like he said.
“Good job, you learned how to paint a house.”
Useful and good.
Maintaining the house you live in.
That paint soaked into my soul.
It was oil based.
++++++++++++++++++++
Poem by Steven J. Pedersen for Friday September 11, 2009
