Ode To An Unknown Artist
The way you paint the apricots,
cherub’s bottoms, not afterthoughts!
The table laid just so,
the way our glances go
from flower to vase to melon,
makes me think you were a woman.
I see you in white crinoline,
dome skirt, bodice, a high neckline.
The apricots like children
you weekly abandon
to live in mind another life
in art, no longer “just” a wife.
Perfect vase? A perfect vessel.
Peach and yellow spirit central.
Then two by two, lemons,
painted pears, persimmons,
gathered children at your gowned feet.
Like life, the painting – incomplete.
Exotic melon, fulsome grapes.
Exotic road, too steep to take.
Like a small bird, from nest
discarded: this, the rest,
of your art, your weekly painting,
soon gone, released without your name.
Bought and gifted by collectors.
Deemed “primitive” by inspectors.
I read your story
lies in a gallery.
Saddens me you are not on view.
I view you. And I see you, too.
©elsp 2025
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