She’s as tall as the easel now,
purple tank top
underneath the apron
falling below her shorts,
all of her splattered with paint.
The smell of linseed
oil or gamsol,
(I’m not sure which) fills the room.
A solid grey-primed canvas
slowly disappears
beneath each stroke –
greens and blues and browns
and touches of bright white.
Her hair is up
in a tangled
bun, and her music plays
to her alone. She’s been stuck
at home for months,
yet maybe
she is more congregant
than trapped – learning
to mix her paints,
to add a bit
of light, to understand
the depth of skin.
10 thoughts on “My Daughter Paints in Quarantine”
Beautiful work as usual Wynne! I love the use of the word congregant. Hope you and your family are well and that Delta does not inspire more poems….
Thank you & I hope all is well with you –
Wynne, what a wonderful gift you have given us .
Thank you for your note & so happy that you saw the poem!
Wynne,
Wonderfully evocative and I introspective at the same time- it’s great to hear your voice on paper- I guess actually in screen.
Don
True! I hope all is well & that you are still writing –
A lovely, lovely poem!
Lovely poem!
Great to hear from you and thank you for your comment! I hope all is well,
Wynne
Your poetry keeps getting better and better
I’ve often read through the collection you gave me when you came to Omaha several years ago to present ethics grand rounds and lead our committee’s education retreat.. it’s nice to hear from you again
Gary Lerner