ManicDDaily

The Sky Seems

The sky seems to have studied
the history of art all night
and has settled on
Picasso’s Blue Period. 

The mountains find the green darknesses of Courbet;
the slate patio, though colorblind, contemplates
Mondrian.

I look for the far hillsides
of the Renaissance—mists that couple
with the horizon—but the line of the mountains
is defined, and there’s no Madonna
on the Rocks, no Mona Lisa filling
the frame, no soldiers
on large-hammed horses
whose lances cunningly
re-direct my gaze—

But already, the sky’s flipped the page—this one a double-face of,
I don’t know, Cezanne and Remington—that is, pearl finding blue,
and now the clouds, the soft straight kind that seem to still stretch
across their beds, pull clean sheets
over their heads,
and the field shows up
in a zillion strokes of brush, dabbed
by daffodil— 

and I think of all those museums I have so missed
during this plague, that communion with squares on walls
that made me feel a part
of human history, of how one sees
the world, of how people people
the world, trees too,
and think that maybe I should
just try looking around more,
right here, right there.

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Good morning!  Not a poem for Mother’s Day (although I snuck a little of that theme in my pic!)  Do have a happy one!  All rights reserved. 

This entry was posted on May 8, 2022 at 6:52 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments.

Tags: Karin Gustafson poetry