Hobe Sound

[ellajam]

Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around;

the blues don't match the breakers in Hobe Sound,
the ocean's unrealistic.-- would you then

return to hold my hand, to paint the sand?
My fingers shake and bristles scrape the ground

beyond the palms, the fields, the church, the town.
I cut a jagged scar into the land.

You could paint the music in the pines,
and birdsong in the skies, suppose I said

it is impossible to shade these lines!
They dry too fast, and chip away. Instead

I wonder which are yours entwined in mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.










Second edit:


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, and guide these hands that paint the sand?

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

You could paint the music in the pines,
and birdsong in the skies, suppose I said,
it is impossible to shape these lines!
They dry too fast, and chip away. Instead,
I wonder which are yours, entwined in mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.










Edit per 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, and guide these hands that paint the sand?

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

You could paint the music in the pines,
and birdsong in the skies, suppose I said
to you, this is impossible! The lines
made by the brush just chip away. Instead,
I wonder which are yours, and what are mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.




Original Post:

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?

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.

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 were yours, and which were mine,
while I engraved the stone above your head.

I love the third edit. For me the slow down was just what I needed. While it got to me in its other forms, this one just whacked me. I think maybe the addition of a location grounded it for me, too. Great job, great editing lesson. Thanks.