The moon languished in the night’s embrace
As if the two had long been lovers,
While an elf-like fellow yawned and stretched,
Still tucked beneath bed covers.
His eyes were bright, yet blurred with sleep
– Offset by his jutting nose.
His build was slight, but he almost took flight
As he kicked off his covers and rose.
The night was silent and frozen
As he peeked through the window blinds.
What he saw was a vast, empty canvass
For his new icy, frosty designs.
A shiver of excitement shot through him
As he gathered his clothes to get dressed –
His warmest tights (for it was chilly tonight)
And his silvery shirt, scarf and vest.
He put on his coat and his long stocking cap
With the tassel that hung down in back.
Then he gathered his brushes and he gathered his paints
And placed them all into his pack.
Quick as could be he was out of the house.
He breathed deeply the brisk air of night.
With artistic restraint, he blended some paint
– Icy blue mixed with silvery white.
His motions were swift and certain.
He moved with both purpose and glee.
And he smiled to himself the smile of someone
With somewhere important to be.
He eyed his bedroom window, amused.
It was there that he decided to start.
He took out a brush, and in a feverish rush
He began painting with all of his heart.
The design was elegant, intricate,
Like a huge snowflake frozen in space,
Or a spider’s web all covered with dew.
It was wondrous, wintry lace.
He cocked his head and he squinted,
Appraising his work for himself.
Then rubbing his chin, he broke out in a grin
And lit off for the street with great stealth.
He never stopped painting a second
As he danced his way down the street,
Painting lampposts and branches above him,
And the bushes and grass at his feet.
With vigor he painted the landscape –
The rooftops and windshields and trees.
Traffic lights and signs and telephone lines,
Shivering in the wintery breeze.
All that his brush touched filled with jewels
Shimmering magically in the dark of the night,
As if his paints came from broken up diamonds,
Or his brush painted strokes of starlight.
He painted the evergreen branches.
He painted shop windows and doors.
He painted each pane of glass and each blade of grass.
And he didn’t stop there – he did more.
He wound his way through the city –
A whirlwind of brushes and paint.
Some think they’ve worked hard and quickly,
But compared to the elf-painter – they ain’t.
Despite his speed he made few mistakes.
His brush always went where he chose –
Except once when he tripped, and his paint-brush hand slipped,
And he painted the poor milkman’s nose.
He finished painting the last tree in the city
As the first sunrays shot ‘cross the land
And lit up his icy crystal designs.
It was glaringly, glisteningly grand.
For a moment he was blinded by splendor.
His work beamed with the brilliance of gilt.
Deep down inside, he was bursting with pride,
Though he knew that his art would soon melt.
So he found him a rock to sit down on.
His breath was still taken with awe.
He basked in the beauty around him.
And he watched ‘til it started to thaw.
As his designs turned slowly to water,
And down window panes started to weep,
With thanks in his heart, he said goodbye to his art
And returned home. And to bed. And to sleep.
This is the way the story ends,
Some may think it sad, I daresay.
But it’s not what we keep in life that counts,
It’s what we give away.
Why does the elf artist paint at all
If his art is fleeting, then fades?
He has to know, he’ll have nothing to show
For his artistic escapades.
He paints because he chooses to.
It’s his way of having fun.
And the joy is in the doing,
Not just the having done.
Fabletime 