He tilts her head just so,

She has remembered the rest:

Hands relaxed upon a

Book of Verse,

Intent in meditation;

She brings no light with her,

He lifts the shade

To the flash of a dove’s wing,

The scent of linseed

Heavy in the room;

Shadows move in silence

Grow longer still,

He strokes with brush

Upon canvas

Carefully, like a lover;

Studies her in quiet repose

(She is too heavy,

Her nose too sharp,

She is no prize)

And chooses burnt sienna

For her eyes;

Still, she holds herself

With certain style,

A practiced flair,

And with his gift

Those other things

Will be forgiven;

She sighs,

A strand of auburn hair

Falls down upon

Curve of lily throat;

He waits, brush lifted,

To let her settle.

He would love her,

Would she let him.