My visit to Monet’s Waterlilies at The Musée de l’Orangerie in Paris


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.

 

 

 

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