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Ekphrasis - November at 11 a.m.
by Kristina Woodhill
you stand within
John Sloane's The Quiet Land
November calendar pastoral
gracing our quiet kitchen's wall
your back to me
country blue jeans
lighter blue long-sleeved shirt
straw farm hat in hand
feet apart, a settled stance
I do not disturb your straight-on gaze
over the rolling hills,
forest and fields touch
sharing and sensing
shorter days,
land loosely laid out
in checkerboard squares
golden grains,
thickly textured mottled trees,
a stream just below your viewpoint,
its source and direction a mystery
traditional white house center canvas
where you and Peg built
a marriage of ideals,
adventures,
loving, conserving this land
just off center
bright red barn
hollering out its
year round color,
nearby groves of oak or maple
chiming autumn-orange
fading high notes
over it all a sky
blushing pink,
brushed gently
with the lightest yellow streaks,
the color of Peg's softly crimped hair
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in reality
the small, white blank
November 22nd calender square
bulging and brimming for months
rips open
upon your desert canvas
breaking earthly confinements,
discarding human limitations
Arizona flash flood
erupting,
pouring out
past years' building sorrows
washes away hope,
yet cleanses malingering agony
replaced with a rush
of her barely audible,
grateful exhale
you sit
back to me
shorts and baggy t-shirt,
holding her tenderly
letting the Sonoran desert
outside your elegant stucco home
take her,
as it will,
anything that lingers
half buried bones
anticipate a new bleaching,
small dust devils
swirl along your fence line
where quail you forgot to feed
for several weeks
don their mourning dove feathers,
quietly cooing
brush strokes cannot keep pace
with Coyote's weaving,
approaching shadow
nor from the crest of Table Top,
with our own rising howls
12/02/2015 Posted on 12/02/2015
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
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