(Poem by Wendy Howe )
At night, there is the man in the moon
wearing his speckled ascot of stars.
But in the morning, there is me and you,
woman and boy held warmly
in the eye of the sun, our universe
this space of yellow grass
clustered with poppies, asterisks
that note how many times
any mother has come here
to share the day with her child.
there was Camille and young Jean.
Afraid of wrinkling her gown,
she did not kneel or sit
but walked allowing her hem
to drag on the foot path
while wishing her son
would run ahead and lose
his own breath in a billow
of grain and blossoms.
His father stood in the distance
measuring the two on canvas.
Every angle mattered, every detail
caught in that spasm of light. Monet
would never understand why
his wife just wanted time
to paint them as an adventure,
a random study in diversion.
To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe
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