Look there to the east, love, how we still see
Montagne Sainte-Victoire as Cézanne saw
her, the way sunlit tinges of blue bleed
with pink and gray, pastel mask over raw
limestone. Let’s sit under aqua awnings
of Les Deux Garçons, sip red Bandol as
he and Zola did till misty dawnings
long before their parting, lift each wine glass
and swear we two will last, solid as that
distant mountain, balanced as his bowing
bathers, at peace in our fluid abstract
setting, anonymous in our flowing
forms to any voyeur but God—artist
whose graceful brush allows us to exist.
Roger Armbrust
November 19, 2009
