the last victim of polio;
she took up brush and canvas
and began a portfolio of one
her singular subject,
a sagging pear in the neighbor's yard,
threatening the cedar fence daily
and daily she would add strokes
sometimes only a vein on a blue Monday
a leaf in a weekend, and a chunk
of trunk on a winded Wednesday
over summer greens she would
double dab fall's golds, yellows, or russet
if snow had begun to drift
seasons, years made their circles
until her hands became stiff, her eyes
filled with film--then, she only sat by the palette,
silent, reverent to a lifelong friend
when she passed, the work
was nearly done, missing only half a fiery sun,
yet the sky was a glorious blue
by chance the final hue
of an image altered
a hundred score, by a hand
that would have done so
a thousand more
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
the last victim of polio;
she took up brush and canvas
and began a portfolio of one
her singular subject,
a sagging pear in the neighbor's yard,
threatening the cedar fence daily
and daily she would add strokes
sometimes only a vein on a blue Monday
a leaf in a weekend, and a chunk
of trunk on a winded Wednesday
over summer greens she would
double dab fall's golds, yellows, or russet
if snow had begun to drift
seasons, years made their circles
until her hands became stiff, her eyes
filled with film--then, she only sat by the palette,
silent, reverent to a lifelong friend
when she passed, the work
was nearly done, missing only half a fiery sun,
yet the sky was a glorious blue
by chance the final hue
of an image altered
a hundred score, by a hand
that would have done so
a thousand more
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