Impatiens

He sat in his chair on the balcony of his beach house,
Overlooking the breathtaking view of Babylon Bay.
There was a certain eagerness about him,
But he was a very patient man, unfazed by delay.

He was waiting for a special friend to arrive,
But that friend wasn't late, the friend was always on time.
And he sat in his patience, nothing stirring,
And the early morning wind rustled through leaves,
Playfully hinting of a rhyme.

A tall vase stood upon a battered stool,
With an ominous glow of twilight encompassing that vase,
And brought about a silhouette upon the flower inside,
An Impatiens, a solitary item that had captured his gaze.

The sun began to rise over the horizon,
His friend had arrived at long last,
His subject, the Impatiens one was ready,
A beacon of life and colour, awakens the past.

His paint brushes waited with baited breath,
They had not felt the texture of canvas for months,
His patience had prepared him for the reunion of hand and brush,
For he had touched paint on blank page not once.

The light weight tool in his hand felt natural,
Like an extension of his arm, moving with precision,
The lightest intentions of the hand, as signals from the mind,
Sent a cascade of colour upon the page,
The sharpest spectral incision.

The sun was not an impatient,
But it would wait for no man, it rose without haste,
The painter was slow and meticulous,
And his canvas couldn't be lathered in paste.

So he valiantly, delicately, played across the page,
Determined to end before the roof shadowed his light,
It was now, that his patience began to wear thin,
Hurry the painting, before first signs of night.

He laid down his brush, he had made good time,
But he lacked the quality he had set to achieve,
Time plays tricks on even the most reserved human beings,
We are all a little Impatiens sometimes.

A Poem By WritersBlock