Art as Playsure

Running through color
Splashing in streets
Of paint
Rolling in the texture
Of my soul.
Pulling out markers
Leaving their trail
On paper
Blindingly
White as snow.
Crushing the charcoal
Between my fingers
And leaving
Smudgy trails
To follow later
With our eyes.
Sniffing the fragrance
Of crayon wax
And listening to
The bristle
Of the paintbrush
Upon the rough tooth
Of the artist's pad.
Feeling each pigment
Every stroke
Course through my blood
As it spills across
The pages.
I delight to see
My work
At end of play.