I don't think he'll come today
to sit with me in this grassy field
like he did that once.
The sun's going down,
I'll have to crawl back again
without seeing him,
without watching him paint
nature's beautiful skies and
rough but lovely grass.
I hoped he would return and
maybe,
even,
paint me with his colors and make
me look tall and beautiful
like I have painted him day after day
in my mind: tall and strong, grinning,
walking toward me over the fields
without fear of my crippled legs.
I don't think he'll come today,
but maybe
tomorrow.
Maybe he will carry me back to my house
or across the field to the river
or far away where I have never gone
and make me feel like I'm walking.