After Whistler
When an admirer of James McNeill Whistler told him a
woman had remarked on her early morning walk about how closely nature came to
some of his evocative canvases, Whistler was exultant. "Ah!" he said.
"So nature is catching up!"
The
type of morning
that
spent an hour or so in bed
before
deciding to be brilliant.
A
haze of indecision burnt off
by
a blaze of gold
playing
one-upmanship with the breeze.
Walks
become therapy not function.
Muscles
not used since Christmas
play
origami, folding smiles
out
of winter-creased faces.
Look
closely and you’ll notice
cares,
worries, the occasional burden
caught
high on budding branches,
flying
at full mast
like
witch’s knickers.
Another
cycle of seasons,
one
more circuit of the sun,
a
reminder of the need
to
stop, be thankful and breathe.
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