What the Muses Leave Behind

“Well, I made you take time to look at what I saw…” – Georgia O’Keeffe 1954 she paints the canvas Winter Cottonwoods East V. Burnt umber and raw sienna render limbs to transcend all sense of sleeping sap. Within her smudged pigment, out of wintry light emerges an odd alchemy. Countless living stems press into thin air in a maze of wands. Even leafless, slow and steady respirations stitch tree with sky in secret marriage. 2004 she is the canvas Winter Cottonwoods East V. I draw in burnt umber and raw sienna to assuage my melancholy since leaving olive tammies1 and silver sage. I make a pact to swap mirror for trees naked now beside my bed. This morning five purple finches pried open black hulls, plainly melding bird and flower budding in song.

“Well, I made you take time to look at what I saw…” – Georgia O’Keeffe 1954 - she paints canvas I test young legs later we intersect at Winter Cottonwoods East V where a simple landscape of burnt umber raw sienna mars brown belies my assumption for sleeping sap absorbs me in fresh wintry light more in smudged paint than fine line she imparts a deep alchemy between tree and sky each broad stem tapers to blur like fabric frayed in steady wind each breath trades sky for tree desert canyons send me home full of sage and tammies edges smudged by steady diet of wild water strong light her trees replace my mirror - I am winter cottonwoods finding old folds like new roots in granite 2004 -I rest tired legs she is canvas we meet at the edges swap moments as maiden – mother - crone breathe in burnt umber raw sienna mars brown trust a naked alchemy my mirror- her trees

You felt it as your heels sank slowly into gummy grains rimming a finely sorted shoreline; from sandy lips fluted like crinoline skirts you felt siren song tucked away among gritty runes. Good time to get up and walk away. This river loves a ruse. Temperamental bards require a lazy audience. So you slow down long enough to watch alluvium drop – down three inches to rusty sand six inches to fine mud two inches to silt outlining nine coon tracks. You sit satisfied, thinking blessed are the patient, and the river leads you on. You feel a rhythm, it hooks your braided logic. Good time to get up and walk away, good time to seek a Heisenburg translation for river speak – he’d say it’s never here – never now always here – always now. You could take an hour to mouth one syllable, you could love mud in your teeth; but a river hoards its lore for locals - heron and chub. River tongues sing beyond us, so you must slide ...

She is home in Tennessee Little Lila Raine Pretty as a willow tree Little Lila Raine Caterpillar on the floor Little Lila Raine Sunshine dances in your door Little Lila Raine Oh, little Lila Little Lila Raine Oh, little Lila Little Lila Raine You’re my little sugar bean Little Lila Raine Lucky clover on the green Little Lila Raine Tell me what you did today Little Lila Raine Skip and sing and laugh and play Little Lila Raine Oh, little Lila Little Lila Raine Oh, little Lila Little Lila Raine Black cat purrs beside the fire Little Lila Raine Red squirrel runs across the wire Little Lila Raine When the moon drops off to bed Little Lila Raine Put a rosebud by his head Little Lila Raine Oh Little Lila Little Lila Raine Oh, little Lila Little Lila Raine Tiny mermaid loves to dream Little Lila Raine Splashing down a lazy stream Little Lila Raine Kiss your mama, hug your pa Little Lila Raine Crows in the tree, go caw - caw Little Lila Raine Oh, little Lila, Little...

He loves the chair that groans, loves its quaky threats to fail; loves to settle at five thirty onto its cracked leather cushion that sags from steady affection - joints rickshaw shaky, legs chestnut strong. “One day,” he thinks, “gorilla glue to the rescue.” The chair is a lifeboat. It has carried more than backsides. It’s held whole vituperative lumps, huffing and mottled, waving fists like distant lines on the Serengeti. He loves stories about species saved; smug on his faithful quay beside unsympathetic seas, he watches for their note in a bottle. The chair is an eddy - it swirls dread like fetid foam, clings to the bitter edge of sweet. The chair is a nest – sticks and skins wound over centuries, middened with sweat and worry, securing his kin, night after night since Lascaux. The chair is tired too, it moans for empty moments, prays for just reward, threatens to give in - seeks rescue from gorilla’s glue.