I’m drifting away and drifting back, my
eyes following you entering glass door
and then my arms. You squeezed so warmly I
felt my body flow into yours. It floored
me at first, then seemed so natural. How
did Manet’s spirit respond, do you think,
sensing our tender union? Did he bow,
turn and smile at Degas, caught on the brink
of dancers’ impression? Surely Cassatt
studied your eyes studying mother and
child. Surely Pissarro visioned us out
in park rain at nightfall, a brilliant band
of light flowing through a lone open gate.
In your car, we caressed and welcomed fate.
Roger
March 31, 2011
