Surrounded by the water lilies and
the willowed light, I spied a girl in tan
and blue, her hair in curled delight. With mounds
of paper and a pen she gazed profound
at purple panels beaming in full bloom.
What thoughts did crease her creaseless face, I mused,
as colors reached through time. She seemed confused.
The ache for child and master made me swoon.
She laughed! Her head bent down, ‘til ribbons touched
the ground. I smiled and watched her discover such
pure grace as in the master’s ode to joy
in paint. Her mother called “Michelle, no more.
The Louve awaits.” And they were gone. But I
remained with silent flocks in reverence
of Monsieur Monet. Time away, my stance
unchanged, ‘til all alone I rose and sighed.
Too close I moved and saw the master’s fear
beneath the beauty. Frightful and so clear.
I felt his gaze grow dim, his canvas grand
as dying eyes threw light upon the land.
I took no notice of the guard, or like,
I tossed aside decorum then bent down
and plunged my aging head towards the ground.
With renewed eyes, I saw the girl was right.