the argument before brush
ever stroked canvas.
words spoken in haste
welling up from someplace
dark and deep and spilled
out across the floor.
her familiar frown turned
away from the shadow
of my easel, she proudly faced
the open balcony door
which overlooked
the garden’s edge.
one arm folded across
bare breasts, she allowed me
the artist’s moment
of capturing the frame
as regal shoulders tilted
toward her indigo past.
a breeze parted linen curtains
permitting spring sunshine
to flood the room
transmuting in an instant
cool air into chalk,
pale yellow and gold.
my trembling hand
couldn’t hold the weight
of emotions felt and unspoken
as she stood vulnerable
yet composed,
and so achingly close.
