If I Were An Artist

If I were an artist, I would paint pictures of tall trees, their leaves dancing in the breeze, green and silver, changing colors in the late afternoon sun. I would paint silhouettes of stark black trees, black against the background of a grey sky, barren of leaves and color. I would paint snowflakes falling thick and white on black paper so each individual crystal could be seen. I would paint wistful memories and hopeful dreams all the while listening to Chopin's Nocturnes. My brush would bring life to a bare sheet of paper. It would dance in a myriad of colors and shapes. It would leave a story in it's wake of life - not mine but of some other's in a far away place. If only I were an artist.

Oh but I am an artist. I may not paint with brushes. I may not use watercolors or oils. Instead I use words, drawn with ink to tell my stories. Color still splashes on my page only I spread with vocabulary, rich yet subtle, bold yet sly. Rather than paint a picture with shapes and colors so you can make your own story, I paint the story with words so you can create your own picture. One kind of artist is no less an artist than another. I am an artist.