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Monet to His Wife

I’ve seen life leaving small things:

a tabby cat,

a red winged bird;

once I held a dog I loved

as breath grew shallow and rare.

But you, Camille, are a complicated thing.


I think of clocks, of coils and gears

and springs and hands;

I think of time and ticking

and how your fingers

were light, precise, and small.


This morning you lay veiled and absent.

I painted you a final time;

Camille, you fled

taking with you every hue.


What remains is as simple

as a broken bird,

as a clock run down.

What remains

are these dark and

flightless hours.


Category: My articles | Added by: Kristin (09.20.2011)
Views: 497 | Comments: 1 | Rating: 0.0/0
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