Visiting Artists As A Child (Poem)

before I knew paintings were to be seen only with your eyes

because artists kindly understood different ways

I would walk to their work with outstretched arms

run my hands across the surface to find how it appeared

green felt different from orange or red or blue

yellow was so distinct I would tell the painters

it smelled like metal in the hot summer

a few would nod and sit on the ground beside me

they knew the world was like this, all texturecolorsoundscent

and we could talk