in this light

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a canvas contains wrung grey clouds

            and the river wrong around tree trunks,

tall and bare to above the waist, crowned

                        in dull gold and hazel, nothing to lighten

            our load, our eyeful. a greener green grows

                        as a lettuce row, and a tone arises hinting

rose—the hue of the blue, the kissed color

            of the stucco hulls of houses up the hill,

the dry grass and bark, brown but slightly

                        glowing—and a garden opens a canvas

            onto a fairytale. a road runs down a river,

                        lined on the left with trees alive in leaves,

while ancient stone buildings with water

            views stream along right to the right, part

of the canvas in shade and part in june

                        sun flame. a painter provides a season,

            a setting, and an oil-thick frame of mind.

                        —after Monet’s Flood at Argenteuil; Pissarro’s Vegetable
                           Garden at the Jardin de Maubuisson, Pontoise; and Sisley’s
                           Saint-Mammès and the Slopes of La Celle—June Morning

Read an introduction to this poem.

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Published: 12-04-2019