I would like to paint
the tears clinging to her long dark lashes
the feminine way she always holds her body
the carpet of dew left behind in the lifting fog
the words the cat spoke to me as I stroked his hot fur in a
bath of sunlight
the smell of fermenting yeast bubbles, rising from the
bowl into the kitchen to greet me
the self-doubt of parenting
the air she wears in 3-inch heels
the tendril of her hair, fallen from her haphazard bun to
the nape of her neck
the feel of her cheek’s tender, waking skin on my
parched lips with a good-morning kiss
the electric currents that flow through the closed circuit
of hands held in love and desire
the inner workings of his steel-trap mind
the questions I never ask, the truths I never speak, and
the fears I always suppress
the allure of a majestic tree
the human heart of darkness in each of us
the sprout, bursting at the seams of its seed shell
the chorus of robins that descended into the garden for
an impromptu concert of familiar song by an
unknown composer
the openness of learning
the disregard of her chocolate-smudged face as she
savors every lick of the ice cream cone
the dust in the air of my father’s furniture workshop
the sound of church bells competing on Sunday morning
(This piece was inspired by the paintings of Lilla Cabot Perry)
