Immortal Bucolic Painting
He ran the palm of his hand across the canvas,
Felt its soft, smooth surface, excellent fabric.
It was well primed with gesso, and he was sure
The end result would be an immortal masterpiece
The quintessential fragrance of daffodils,
a carpet of yellows in secluded woodlands,
new-born lambs on wobbly legs bleating for milk,
bees irresistibly drawn to luscious nectar.
male cotton less cottonwood trees flourish
as do the blooming peach trees erupting in fruit.
And birds flying here and there, chirping delightfully.
On one side a cottage, beautifully thatched,
with a rivulet wending its way from the water mill,
on the other, a bench beneath an alder leaf birch.
There sat a young maiden fair to behold,
on his knees was a young shepherd hand outstretched,
barely touching, proposing, as she smiles happily.
The painter looked satisfied. It had taken days
But finish it he did. The Museum would be satisfied.
After all weren’t all his vast landscapes immortal?
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