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.