"day without roses"

he paints in strokes of blues and greens, in dashes
of yellow. he decides to add violet to
give the image weight, but discovers
he has run out of red and can't find any more.
none is left on his palette; he has used it all up.
there was a time when he painted
ruddy murals of fields covered
in the scarlet blush of wild roses, days when he prodigally
splashed the crimson stain, spilling it on himself
like a child with fingerpaints, but his
little paint pot soon spoiled and turned a sickly brown.
he even tried vainly to paint with the spoiled red, but
the color and the stench were too awful to bear.
now he searches his spare jars, every vessel on his
wooden shelves, and comes up empty.
he tries to mix other colors, to approximate
the missing hue, but each one quickly shows
a poor imitation. he decides to use different colors, then.
he decides he doesn't need the red, thank you.
orange. no, that won't work. brick. no, no, think.
perhaps a mulberry? possible, but still not what he wants,
what he is needing. he looks at his unfinished canvas.
he sighs. he sets the palette down, and then sets himself down
on his chaise. he leans against the back, he leans back and
he gazes on his dark image. he cannot finish. he needs the red.
and the red is nowhere to be found.
he falls asleep, he sleeps deeply, his work undone,
and he dreams of rolling fields, blooming in the gorey blush
of wild roses.