Were I to write a starry, Starry Night

Or a perfect Degas ballerina set to rhyme

If poetry from me flowed like Monet’s water lilies glowed

I’d be the greatest poet of my time

But words are images of the mind

And not like strokes of color to the eye

A thousand words it would take to even one fine picture make

But works of art these words would still belie

La Grande Jatte forever Seurat’s masterpiece

And Renoir’s ample nudes are for all time

Impressions set upon my mind in perfect words I cannot find

For without color this verse is but a humble rhyme