She slides her hair under a red hat
her husband purchased for an anniversary gift.
Its brim is in full bloom
like poppies overshadowing a field
Monet painted summers ago.
The artist placed his wife
among the rouged flowers
knowing their shade would embolden
the dry stalks of grass
and her complexion paled
from a dark confinement.
His brush splattered petals
On canvas. Wind-blown and wanton,
they loaned his woman a smooth burst
Of confidence, an opulent fire
that trailed her footsteps, attracted
The gossip of villagers and nodding trees.
Such attention compels a lady
to seek red, to camouflage her worries
in a swirl of color and fling time
aimlessly adrift. When she turns her head,
all those seconds dangle, magic
tickling a long but stiffened neck.