Behind the small folding bookshelf
in the guest room, I find three
canvasses. Each one bears traces
of the start of a project— landscape,
portrait, indeterminate still life;
none of them complete beyond a first
thin layer. I must have seen things
then that beckoned as finished visions,
but that now I must conjure if I want
to complete them. Not to make
a copy of the thing, but to manifest
the heat that cut through the distance—
wheel of yellow, bowl teeming with fruit;
girl blowing a profusion of dandelion
seeds into the wide open sky.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
