Gold trees
This is where she stood
with her imperfect vision refusing
to wear glasses she trusted
something bending into
her the way water
bends the body's image.
She wanted to paint this
part of the morning even though
it meant surrendering
much of her vocabulary
the way the sea wind blurs
palm fronds together,
the way the sea
charms the depths into
fishlessness. Whatever she knew
blended, not exactly the way
red fallen maple leaves
lie in November at the bottom
of the fish pond,
clumped over each other,
December sediment a dank
speckled breath where the leaves
were. What is her vision
worth? The blackbirds rise
out of the alfalfa field
first as individual
birds then as a kind of
moving blot, negative
against the sky whose color
is indistinguishable.
Someday she will place
her hand on the canvas
and paint that part of the picture
on her skin, when she raises
it off she will see the outline
of her true form.
to Patricia Friend's "44th St. Hill"
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