Hobe Sound

[milo]

Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around --
there's too much grey, the way it boils down,
this ocean's unrealistic -- would you then
return, to teach me how to paint the sand?

the way it boils down feels off somehow. Also, maybe something more collaborative then "teach" but I am not sure. The relationship in the rest of the poem felt more collaborative to me, like a lost lover, not mentor or parent.

My fingers shook and bristles scraped the ground
beyond the palms, the fields, the church, the town.
I cut a jagged scar into the land.

nothing wrong here, but I would switch it to present tense:

My fingers shake as bristles scrape the ground
beyond the palm, the fields, the church, the town.
I cut a jagged scar into the land.

You who could paint the music in the pines,
and birdsong in the skies, suppose I said
to you, this is impossible! The lines
left by the brush just chip away. Instead,
I wondered which wereare yours, and which were or mine,
while I engraved the stone above your head.

probably the best I have read from you. The sonics are spot on, the line breaks are good, you kept to the meter except the places I noted you maintain a simple metaphor throughout and address it both literally and symbolically with a consistent logic train.