July Serenade
Summer morning has slipped her hold on the sun
and mist has long since joined the waterscape sky
beneath which sloping shadows have started to stretch
and amber haystacks, freshly rolled, shimmer as refined trinkets before me.
I half expect to see Monet, hat tilted, before an easel flourishing with stabs
and strokes of his brush, silhouetted not before his beloved Giverny,
but my mountains shrouded in violets and smokey blues.
Indulgently open my sketchbook, try capturing the mythic greens before me,
admire flutter-byes of butterflies, songbirds, and hawks;
embelish with artful twists of sweet lavender, ancestral golds, and blissful blues;
a midday serenade, an ode unsung, lovingly stroked and shaped
in the open air, time and movement captured with broken color,
my hat removed, sun upon my face, and I trust, Claude over my shoulder.
by Margaret Bednar, July 13, 2019
This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Just One Word - Trinket"
