Born among the children of the flowers
The spring of life seems safe in the womb of family love—
But too soon the changes come.
Secretly unsettled in a world of shifting illusions
Like the tiny craft unshackled from its moorings
Set adrift on a quiet, seething sea;
And the chasm widens silently.
Innocent childhood gives way
To the summer of turbulent youth
Unbridled and unsure;
Uncommon and unappreciated;
Unconventional and alone.
Summer colors darken as storm shadows fall
Making sure-footed pathways disappear beneath--
As the brush strokes begin.
Summer swelters and the uncompassed artist
Seeks respite—the cool, comforting breezes
Of family and home. He cries out, but there is no wind
To carry his voice. No echo in the smothered air.
Only a mother’s constant, unconditional affection
Breathe fleeting whispers of comfort
As the bottle and brush become
The roof and door.
But even summer’s homeless torment fades as
As a new season beckons from a distant shore.
Palm trees and manatee replace the moose and pine;
White sands, the snows of crusted peaks.
Somehow, the storm tossed craft innocently,
Unexpectedly drifts home.
Early autumn cat-birds the
Work of spring breathing new life!
Youth’s tempestuous passions transform as
The certainty of love settles in.
Images enliven as home and occupant possess each other
Feeding the mind’s fertile eye and
The spirit’s generous wit.
Life’s canvass emerges in resplendent view
With a bold new pallet of deep and vibrant, soul satisfying color.
But autumn’s Indian summer fades too soon and leaves begin to fall.
At first almost unnoticed and finally as a torrent from a cloudless sky.
Winter’s whistling winds chill the air and still the artist’s brush.
But the certainty of spring looms evermore as the wanderer
In loving memory of the triumphant life of The Artist Kip (Ackerman)
March 23, 1960 - February 19, 2010