I
am sorry to report the eyewitness to a terrible war that was raging in a field
not far from my residence in Pittsburgh. The onslaught was horrific. The two
groups were, as most major disputes are, waged over turf. The turf war of
subject took place on a narrow stretch of green at the lower end of a meadow
before the start of a wooded lot. The
parties involved were the daffodils, dastardly in reputation, and their dreaded
adversaries the irises. On the side of neither were scattered amongst the frae,
the anarchical dandelion, whom which only added fuel to the skirmish. Buds
and blooms pelting each other with every breeze gust peddles fell in the
conflict. Bladed leaves struck their blows like arrows and spears. More did the
peddles fall like snow on the battlefield wind adrift the fallen victims amidst
in a deadly heap at my feet. Mournful was I at this scene that such what was
beauty could minister such nightmarish dream. I
gathered handfuls of flowered stalks.
Purple
and yellow together I bundled the flock.
Together
they must band in flask in my hand until they submit to my demand to be at
peace once more.
art American landscape painter portraits Boston Pittsburgh nature transportation energy acrylics oils watercolors modern impressionism abstract brilliant colors flowers garden impasto original
