after Georgia O’Keeffe
oil on canvas, 30×40 inches
How long were we
waiting for the sun?
Was she dreaming
of winter or wading
through the husk?
Root, then spindle.
Radiance, then rapture.
The sky matches my nails
(enameled blue-bell).
Branches crossing bare,
unmyelinated paths
to heaven.
Lean, reach, protrude.
Reminds me of a broken,
gnarled tooth: saliva,
white-flowered alyssum,
tonguing the loss.
Shivering within the common
violets, brighter this season.
Almost as if we’ve stumbled
upon a perennial waltz
dressed in oil. Would you believe
I feel hope and melancholy
simultaneously?
Wondrous gray matter,
cerebral cortex’s color.
Where will I go
in the morning?
My gap tooth grin,
future out of sight,
letting the scene go
dark before I walk away.
Cut the stage lights, drain the rind.
Would you wish it away
for one more evening hour?
The trees are whispering:
we are mirrors, we are windows.
Snow filled the landscape,
clouds lost their ink.
Nothing is being held
by the withered grooves.
Of course, I am always
asking for more sky.
Cassidy Black is a writer with roots in rural western Pennsylvania. She received her MA in psychology from Chatham University. Her poems have appeared in Opal Age Tribune, Warm Milk, Furrow, and elsewhere.
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