Landscapes
Rev. 2
Portrait of a Landscape Painter
I don’t know how to do
your dimensions—the reach
of a tree as if for a hand,
the home touched real
on the horizon. I can’t generate
your wave, find the mood
of your ocean—the slash in
your stroke, your more
physical act of inspiration.
There’s no pretty line
in my wrist, my mountains
are faceless, birds are simple
and distant. I can’t grasp
your night and day, feather
in your faintest light, cast
shadows fine enough to slip
past a frame. I won’t dabble
in intangibles, or ripple
your fluid moon, finesse its
bright path to the bend of
heaven, or cake on your light,
make bones of reflections.
Rev.
Landscapes
I don’t know how to do
your dimensions—the reach
of a tree as if for a hand,
the home touched real
on the horizon. I can’t generate
your wave, find the mood
of your ocean—the slash in
your stroke, your more
physical act of inspiration.
There’s no pretty line
in my wrist, my mountains
are faceless, birds are simple
and distant. I can’t grasp
your night and day, feather
in your faintest light, cast
a shadow that slips beyond
the frame. I won’t dabble
in intangibles, or ripple
your fluid moon, take its
bright path to the bend of
heaven, or scatter your death,
make bones of reflections.
*Notes: reflections vs your reflections
Landscapes
I don’t know how to do
your dimensions—the reach
of a tree as if for a hand,
the home touched real
on the horizon. I can’t generate
your wave, find the mood
of your ocean—the slash in
your stroke, your more
physical act of inspiration.
There’s no pretty line
in my wrist, my mountains
are faceless, birds are simple
and distant. I can’t fake
your night and day, feather
in the faintest light or stretch
your shadows beyond
the frame. I won’t dabble
in intangibles, or ripple
your fragile moon, pave
a bright path to the bend
of heaven or scatter the water
with the bones of reflection.
Last edited by James Brancheau; 10-14-2024 at 01:48 PM.
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