The tips of leaves turn to rust as your fingers gently caress their body. From your cold hand comes warm colors so shortly lived. But on this day you blow kisses, sending your art to the ground. A storm rides on your back and the air grows humid from the clouds; exercising their grey weight. Sweat trickles down their ghostly shoulders, raining through you, plummeting to earth and slamming on dying green. During the night you paint the moon, large with a bite out of its head, opaqued in the colors you habitually make, now lost in the darkness.