I can still smell the boxes

That hold colors so dear

And feels the prickles

Of the paint brushes near

Ways to express

Clothes scattering in a mess

Plastic beauty

You can never feed moody

You could smell it cook

And read picture books

Make scribbled designs

With squiggles and lines

It was always there

Even when it was not

You could see things in the air

Who knew it would be more than a dot