Secret Art

The snow is spattered with paint,
the dregs of watercolors,
the stuff you throw away,
somehow unaware that it too
is art.

About this poem. 

I poured out some of the scummy colored water after I had been painting the other day. Normally it goes down the drain, but being in a silly mood, I splattered it into the snow behind my house. Temporary art.

But it got me thinking about how many people get thrown away, who have magic in them still. Too many. Way too many.

Time to play some more.

Tom