in the inexplicable contented sky.
I'm looking through a window
only metres souther
than my window used to be.
Same square of sky,
same so happiness.
Shapes tease. My eye jumps
to the step-ladder foreground: couch,
window-frame,
tree-leaves,
into the blue where a gull
hangs like a kite
slipping the wind.
Layers of dawn-pink cloud in
air as deep as chickory
appeal to why?
The restless
conversational waving
leaves, the toss of branches
behind a stolid chimney.
Spirals of wind in a marginal mind
over stunningly straight roof-peak,
angled pattern of brick
meeting pattern of shingle:
distractions from knowing
there's something there
I can't identify, name
nor paint into this picture.
Something the eye does,
allowing time to process:
making the seen, let's say.
The frame inverts, translates back
the picture I think I see:
my life, as many-tiered scene
outside the window, reflects
the heart of the prism.
The next day that sky thing appeared as
an alligator waiting in the water,
or a stone I saw that way.
Why, paintings are
paintings of time.
Czandra
Alligator photo by Michael Boughn
