Mild and Fanciful Distraction.

How seamlessly my colors blend into the earth;
the same palette of browns,
as if from the same acrylic tube
or maybe watercolor,
if God used water to form me from birth,
but I can't paint the feeling
of the bristled grass in my fingers,
or the pop of the weak greens
that stand out against my hand,
my hand, strangely muscular, almost foreign
as if after twenty-three years of life I only
just realized I was a grown man
with the pop of iridescent blue glimmering
underneath my tanned skin,
veins a phlebotomist would enjoy.
I can't paint this feeling, or even
capture it into words,
gracefully lowering the sunset onto
my parched notebook paper
quenching its thirst
that plagues me into trying, anyway,
as grass, the browns and my tans,
the greens and pricks of fall and
sunset air
fold themselves between the margins,
before I set my pen down
and once again take up my book -
a mild and fanciful distraction from my reading
put into writing once more.