(Poem by Wendy Howe )
I upholstered the sofa in blue silk,
the shade of farmhouse shutters
that once guarded the window
where Seurat watched his mistress
cloister a moth in her hand.
And later when evening burnished
the hour to a mellowed hue of fire,
he painted them on sailcloth.
No lines, no silhouette
just grains of light and matter
vibrating with a wistful poise.
And though content
with my choice of shade and fabric,
I wonder if the color
somehow chose me, draped
over the store's mannequin
as I entered, this mood
of concentrated blue:
grapes, water, a bird
plume floating near shore. All points
of memory that comprised my stance
and attraction to a tone
that could accentuate loss, the last
place I dined with him
where the lake induced us to sip
sweet wine. I watched his gaze
migrate with the swallows, his interest
geared toward a climate
of seasons that did not winter
staying mostly young and hot.
My hand would not reach for his shoulder
but hung still, the aqua light
sliding under thin fingers.
To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe
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