Nénuphars
Once you've been to Paris,
Whenever you go, travel, visit, sojourn there, again,
Paris will always be there, waiting for you,
As it was, in St. Louis's Forest Park, last evening,
When we attended the Art Museum's opening
Of the Monet's Water Lilies exhibition.
Just being in those cavernous spaces,
Encountering, in the eight-foot-high entrance photograph,
The painter himself, looming larger than legend,
Sporting an anomalous white suit, shirt, and vest,
Face-consuming beard, brush in one hand,
Perpetual cigarette in the other,
Then, through the happenstance miracle
Of a surviving snippet of cinematic history,
Viewing two minutes of the master Impressionist
Standing in his cherished garden, by the basin,
Loading magic, from his palette, onto his brush tip,
Then stroke-stroke-stroking his plein-air canvas,
Frequently turning to his right, to fix each nénuphar,
Focus it, on his imagination's retina,
Before translating it to the eternal colors of paradise . . .
Just being there was to be there, again, in Paris,
Our spirits transported to fantasy's City of Light,
The two of us strolling the Tuileries, toward L'Orangerie,
Lingering in Monet's breathing aura, at Giverny,
Drawn to the sacred source of his water lilies,
You and I blending our love for them
With our adoration for each other,
Until the newly reunited triptych titled Agapanthus
Drew us into its pastel-hued shimmering.
And for the second time in less than two months,
Our sensual souls knew how it felt
To be flowering in the timeless sublime of then and now.
10/05/11 - (1)
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