Moving Colors – a poem by David Cazden

Moving Colors


At an exhibit by Grace Walker Goad, 
autistic artist of Nashville.


The color pink unfolds
over her painting, a hue
like the two vinyl gloves 
I wore cleaning my parents' house
before it was sold―
pink as our living room window
mirroring early spring buds
where, drapes buttoned up,
a scarf of wind on the chimney,
Mom sat in winter
in yellow lamplight.
Another painting's the color
of our 70s kitchen
in marigold-yellow,
like wild mustard 
staining hills behind our backyard
or Mom's blouse filling with sun,
opening the window to wake me.
Because the painter's autistic
"with lack of muscle control,"
she paints only abstracts―
Everything's communicated
through shape and hue
and swaths of sheer color.
I try to imagine 
the artist's hand
opening onto the canvas 
for the first time, like being born 
again in the sky―
For it's possible
to be born over and over.
And as I stroll down the gallery hall
I too am filled up with color
as if it were spirit,
by the time I leave,
taking concrete steps
to the parking lot―
into cool air,
under all-knowing stars,
in the late light of a blue moon.

David Cazden‘s poetry has appeared in various places such as Passages North, Nimrod, The Connecticut Review, Crab Creek Review, Fugue, Valparaiso Poetry Review, The McNeese Review, Barely South Review and elsewhere. He was poetry editor of the magazine, Miller’s Pond, for five years. David lives in Danville, Kentucky USA.