Red Song
As geese flutter at water’s edge,
I walk the path around the lake
where green trees surround
like a mother’s gaze.
Sun brushes water
with whispers of light,
as if Monet painted
this scene, captured
the hue of Woman in Green Dress.
With these
thoughts,
foot disconnects from the ground.
Hands thrown in front, too late
to keep my chin from bursting
with red song. I breathe deeply,
picture Tim
Weisberg's fingers
moving over the flute
like Monet's brush,
swirling a myriad of colors.
I dab my chin, with a tissue,
color filling the blank space,
rub my scraped hands, wipe dirt and
grass
from my knees, notice a large bruise
on my left thigh, as if Monet
dipped his brush in purple and red,
painting a sunset for my souvenir
while Weisberg serenades me home.
Robin Wright
Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in Ariel Chart, Minnow Literary Magazine, Ekphrastic Review, Re-side, Black Bough Poetry, Spank the Carp, Muddy River Poetry Review, Rat’s Ass Review, and others. One of her poems was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Panoply, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was recently published by Finishing Line Press
art needs a point of view and quite happy to see one and be content
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