Only In Passing

Written by: Orma Sullivan

I passed over Monet this morning--an Ohio River-crossing;
the promise fulfilled with ante meridian mists,
trees, sun, and deep, moving waters
exploding in mute reflection
as leaves on the banks paid homage.

Sudden, brush-filled hands shot up from the depths--Excaliburs all--
staking their ancient claims to everlasting morning glory.