The Drama of Blue
(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.
© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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" Rhapsody in Blue "

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 Rhapsody in Blue

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