Looking back on years of caring,
Seeing how they end:
Struggling, with you to be friends.
Feels like we’re in an exhibition –
Paintings on a wall — watching past impressions fall.
Stillness in your eyes when you’re thinkin’
Questions wrinklin’ your pretty nose,
Find me wondering just whose’ on your mind—
Is Claude Monet or Michelangelo ?
All Those Quirky Little Things
Still endear you to me.
So strong, now I know they’re gone.
Now that gallery is empty,
Everyone’s gone home.
The artist’s work hangs all alone.
It this why she made the effort--
To create a show? Or has she
Nothing else to sow.
Visions of love and truth and beauty—
Sketches lost with out discarded sheets,
Still I can find your blossom opening
In the still-lifes of O’Keefe.