Poetry: What She Paints

Poetry What She Paints

Poetry that I have written for my lovely wife, Rebecca. Presented today for the first time anywhere! Visit her blog at My Faces of Life.

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.

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