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unpublished poet.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.

Your Count Was Off

Your Count Was Off

(“The king replied, ‘But look, I see four men. They’re untied, walking in the middle of the fire, and unharmed. The fourth one looks like a son of the gods.’” Daniel 3:25)

Have you ever stood outside when the grass was dewing,
when the darkness was wooing your feet to the meadow,
your arms by your sides, and your eyes to the sky;
Have you ever stood outside in the smudgy dark
and watched all night as the moon came down?

And were you certain, mostly because of the static electricity
from people rubbing on your head,
that it was your fault the moon was dead?

Have you ever lived in God’s house (in our out) where
every move was calculated, measured, and manipulated?
Have you ever walked in to pray, and cried instead, words and
devotion fled and only your naked knees understood anything?
Have you ever dreamt, 30 years later, that it all meant something
but you never were tall enough to bring the glory down?

And were you certain, mostly because of the chemical reaction
from short-robed preachers accusing your soul,
that it was your fault behind and ahead?

Have you ever held up new grapes to the sun,
wondering in a half-second’s eternity of winding vineyards
and wines that brighten the eyes?
Have you ever had a day when a king’s summons
met your serenity tête-à-tête squeezing you between
another’s troubles; a wound upon the head because of what
the king had said?

And were you certain, mostly because of the wind in your soul,
that there was no other option, though most thought the king a priest,
that it was you and the troubled who might not escape unscathed?

And did anyone tell you at midnight, after the madness, in the middle
of either faith or sadness,

That your count was off and one more stood unburned, not only in the furnace
but also in the years with you unarmed. And unharmed.