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
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.