What She Paints

She sits on her crooked stool flowers on her summer dress seated so delightfully poised her brush is sweeping elegantly over the stretched canvas as I lean on this tree and revere her. What does she paint? The light of the sun dancing on the still black pond water? The trees in the cove yonder? Their leaves pirouetting in the hot summer wind? Or perhaps its the bobbing boats moored from the distance of the jutted rocky shore? No matter for she is a painting painting a painting. She is so delightful as her head tilts slightly towards her subject very near colored laundry which billows slowly waves predictably in the warm and gentle breeze. I look and gaze as the summer’s dense heat creates creeping rivulets of hot sweat on my brow Oh these woods! The little cottage with the white drapes rising and falling in the sticky breeze over the tiny window sills Oh that cottage! That lone sanctuary as silent witness sits. Even Monet that fearless artist with his lovely works couldn’t capture the nature of this scene couldn’t replicate its sacred serenity its tender tranquility. And the Cicadias are in concert here in unison their harmony a rising and falling a hypnotic rhythm until a baby cries out and all at once she stirs she rises. As she walks-strides really- toward the door toward her joy there’s a sweet smile for me! A welcoming wave for me! And in this moment in this place beside this tree I wave and smile and stand transfixed mesmerized entranced by the divine splendor of the scene and the euphoria that is her. (click on the pic to preview my poetry book!)