Sunday, November 29, 2009

Ventanas del Alma

She painted live,
on a river bank
high meadow
or a farm wall
in an Italian village;
the memories
hang on the walls
of my home.

Blue water checked
by current and sun
flows by nodding grass;
deeper green downstream
speaks of slow water
and basking turtles.

Sun slants and falls
on yellow enamel pitcher
and tubes of Grumbacher;
this is the paint she always used.
Brushes dry in a ceramic cup
we bought in Naples;
I built this studio for her.

On our bedroom wall hangs
the one she painted from
a mind’s eye snapshot;
highway turned to dusty trail
wreathed in sage.
Windblown wheat laps
like water in a pond.
Hazy view northward whispers
of the Okanogan.

Above it all blue sky wheels,
turns to gray and black
as the storm comes on.

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