After Monet, “Woman with Parasol” 1875
In the springtime of her breath
she stands in an Argenteuil field
where a breeze twirls and lifts her skirt
while the undying sky unfurls.
With her toe, she teases her shadow,
faithfully fluttering at her side.
Some steps apart, on their family stroll,
her boy has paused to watch and wait.
She grips her parasol for shade
and surety, and slowly she turns,
and turning she can almost see
that straw-brimmed hat and those pink cheeks.
And I, caught up in sky-blue strokes,
the swirling stasis of Monet,
cling to the Elysian field
alive with wild lavender
where my boy stands, quick, restored.
After this winter’s span of death
we will meet in Monet green
in the springtime of my breath.