A woman yields

to on-coming traffic. Pigeons lift from the road.

 

A bearded man cycles by

in his straw hat and white shirt. A knapsack with easel

strapped behind.

Manet cloned.

 

He is going somewhere to paint

a rowboat dozing

among cattails and a morning breeze. Their reflections

splintered. A rippling spill

 

of blues and greens. Brown soft

as the pelt of a muskrat And the sun warm; pond musk

deepened by its heat.

 

The woman checks her mirror.

A man slowly disappears into his dream.

Birds have flown to street lamp or tree.

The asphalt shimmers;

 

and she makes her turn thinking

of another impressionist. How age

has slightly fractured the lake

of her skin.

Fine lines ripple

under the eyes, around the mouth.

 

Yet when the right wind sails

across her face, she feels them shrink

under lashes (still) sprouting thick

like the water willow;

 

and lips that haven’t swelled

with collagen — but a burst of words.

 

The brief overflow

of a poem. Her breath thawed into Spring.