Monet's Garden
The gate to Monet’s Japanese garden’s open,
beckoning, and green as Giverny’s winter wheat,
but there’s no time to glimpse the pond’s lilies within.
Monet’s Rose Cottage-locked to all but the wrens-
though curved trellises invite, and a path entreats;
the gate to Monet’s Japanese garden is open,
but the tour bus’s door closes, we can’t go inside.
Deep within submerged, asleep, in their frosted retreat
but there’s no time to glimpse the pond’s lilies within.
Black skies sully the palette, a torrent begins
all hope lost in the thunder’s accompanying beat.
The gateway to Monet’s Japanese garden is open;
with a glance, we leave; we can say that we’ve been?
A dream sought, not found, Normandy’s gem incomplete.
but there’s no time to glimpse the pond’s lilies within.
Accustomed to beauty, the plump driver’s chagrined;
yet, he’s kept to schedule; we’ve stayed in our seats.
The gate to Monet’s Japanese garden is open,
but there’s no time to glimpse the pond’s lilies within.
First Published in Allegro Poetry Magazine Fall 2015
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