Curtalns

The morning barges through the porous perforated lace,

Draped and dreary over rain rusted burglar bars.

The glares of golden flaming beams infringe stain dusted glass,

Erratic sparks and splashes speckled on the hardwood floors.

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She clings to her slumber engulfed in layers of shining satin,

Her sheets a shield from what would drag her to her feet,

But the sunlight persists, creeps up her cream coverlet

And across her eyes until she surrenders to its stubborn incandescence.

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She stands before the window, throws the moon-white veil agape

Like a groom before his long-awaited bride,

But her marriage to this scenery more cage than warm embrace,

Has entrapped her, knotted strings around her joints.

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Each day this painting greets her—she knows each stroke by heart,

The knee-deep field of poppies, the fading rainbow of wooden homes

Now obscured by raindrops in impressionistic smudges

By some invisible and God-sized Monet

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And each night she takes the same view, blanketed in black

And seals the frail embroidered frost until all is out of sight.

The next day she awakes, and she restarts the stiff ballet

In a never-ending encore by no audience’s demand.

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Perhaps she’ll buy new curtains, frame her world between new hues,

Let colours of her choosing flood her silent morning hour.

Blond light rays will be tinted plum, spotted residue on the ground,

The splattered floor her canvas, she the artist, brush in hand.

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