Nothing Rhymes With Orange Poem by Christine K. Trease

One foot crossed in front of the other pulling me down the tree-shadowed sidewalk.

The trip was short in distance, yet long in thought. The frames held no images, the
pedestals no sculpted masses and the tags no scribble.

This was a blandness I could not bear. My mind conjured imagery. Hues of blues and
bursts of violent violet and crimson red. The colors raced forth with such ferocity that
they racked my senses and prickled my skin.

My heart began to race with excitement. Thoughts of rich earth-tones coated my mind.
They encompassed me and swaddled me like a comforted child. Visions of aged
buildings towering with symbolism, and steeped in culture, (splashed with a bit of Vino
for good measure) .

I stopped short. My eyes strained to see through the tinted glass and words, and as I
opened the Gallery door and a flood of air-conditioned imagery washed over me.

The trip through the Gallery was long in length and short in time. I revisited the displays
time and time again in frenzied attempts to engrave them in my memory.

My trip was done. I paused at the Gallery door, bracing to face the outside world again. I
paused and took one last look around. A sad look at what I was to leave behind. It was
then that a small art piece called out to me.

An art piece that had gone undetected until now. An art piece that put the experience in to
words much better than I. An art piece sculpted of a ball of clay and painted rightfully so,
brilliant orange. A small art piece with a powerful message. An art piece titled, 'Fruit of
My Labor' and bearing the artists name.