The Painter’s Reverie
The scent of crisp linen in the breeze washes me back to a distant memory,
Inspiration tingles through my fingertips,
guiding my hands on the canvas.
A soft rustling next to me startles,
Then chills me,
Despite the humid summer air.
Before my eyes rises my reminiscence.
My brush strokes are no longer flat,
but pixels configuring my imagination right before my eyes.
A maiden beautified by blue was hanging garments before me;
her face so striking, so familiar. . .
I can’t stop my feet from drifting towards her.
I ache to caress her shoulder,
She turns to me flashing a radiant smile. . .
In that moment, magic, I knew her –
My wife, who sat in the barn and watched me
Painting every afternoon.