The grainstacks of Giverny, first of all,
Set in the open, backed by bluish sky;
The seasons, though not ever fully fall;
The open river, lined by leaning trees
That yearn to touch the water, but cannot,
Their limbs untouched by even mild breeze,
Their trunks too stable to imagine rot;
Beck in himself, a not-too-humble scene;
A dozen or so snowfalls, white with grey;
Most everything in blues and deeper green
Touched by the tendrils of the dawning day;
Most livelily, another painter's daughters
And drops of sunlight on the endless waters.
No comments:
Post a Comment