Les Nymphéas – Tree
Reflections
He sits in a wicker chair, gazing at trees,
straw hat, old suit, patrician beard,
cigarette held in limp fingers: Claude Monet.
Our cessation is not sudden. Like stars
across the black dome of a sky, one by one,
flickering, unnoticed, into oblivion,
senses lose their clarity. Seeing is all,
the sensual beauty of being. Dying eyes
blur what memory tells, what paint recalls.
Giverny, when daylight and darkness
share a moment of equilibrium;
lake mirrors last hints of brightness
in the imagined sky. Shadow of willow,
trunk and whispy branches, shimmer
against blues of echoed, vanishing light.
Yet rose pink, palest white, green, luminous,
lilies, floating spirits, gently drift
across the blackness, suspended,
forever, against impending night.
No comments:
Post a Comment