She Earned Her Living from Art

 

She Earned Her Living from Art

(“The light is pleasant, and it is good for the eyes to see the sun.” Ecclesiastes 11:7)

 

The sky was creamsicle orange late on a December afternoon;
haze and long rays from between the hills lit the early evening dimly.
It did not seem a night for reverie,
the day had crushed even the lowest expectations
and sleep seemed a distant and uncertain relief.

I met her only briefly,
truth be told, it was a dream,
hair black as youth,
cheeks like candle-glow,
skin the color of Arizona stucco.
I knew her,
and did not.
She said she earned her living from art.
I said I did not.

I did not see her entire gallery,
but misty frames in the background hung on gray concrete.
They drew me in as certainly as her raven eyes.
She was oil and acrylic, digital graphite and
fashion design.
She stood eye to eye with me,
invited me without words to join her collective,
to share my oeuvre of writing with her.

She stood straight and I slid to my knees;
not a faint and not a bow,
but a balloon without air; I was still an
unpublished poet. And she earned her living
from art.

The morning was neapolitan; I am sure of it. Though
I woke after dawn, the colors of the sun and the
face of the girl remained until the afternoon rains
washed them
mostly away.