Watching Sunset from the Smokey Mountains

Shades of yellow, orange, pink, and red
fade like line-dried clothing
into blue, purple, and finally grey.
Some feel closer to God at this altitude.
I feel farther away.
The vantage shows all too clearly
the limitations of mortality.

I have been to the Met;
I stood, a statue, before an auburn haired siren
painted by a man so arthritic
his assistant tied the brushes to his hand.

Jealous of his pain,
I later scratched eyes on a canvas
with a dry brush,
I wrote page upon page with an empty pen,
my own hands tied by inferiority.

I climbed today for inspiration, elevation,
for a song, sung in color.
Instead I am mocked by a mud puddle,
not even the painting itself, but the palette;
I can only descend and imitate.