When the wind began to stir
the clear reflections on the pond
began to blur —
the trees, the clouds, the blueness of the sky
were shimmering


There was then in front of me
a vast impressionist painting
and I was there with none to share
the canvass laid before me.


When the wind diminished
all those reflected things
returned to what they were
before  the ripples came.


It must have been
a  day akin to this
but long ago
that swirled into an artist’s soul
and then he knew he had to paint
the way things ain’t
but seem to be sometimes
when water and the wind
are able to impress a man
moved by reflections.

This entry was posted in Poems. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply