POETRY
A Memory of Her Artist-Self
by Francis Masat

A good picture is equivalent to a good deed.
— Vincent Van Gogh

Above her wire frame glasses, wisps of gray hair
taunt her in the erratic early morning breezes.
Her easel sits in the middle of the grassy alley
behind our house; she readies herself to capture
the ancient bougainvillea that dwarfs our aging
wooden fence. Without hesitation, she measures
shape and hue. With each stroke, colors build
her work: magenta, lemon, emerald, azure...

The canvas seems to produce its own light and life —
a warmth born of knowing colors. Alley grass,
old fence, bougainvillea, and sky — each take a place
in her creation. She works non-stop — confident;
joy shining in her ease, the measuring tilt of her head.
Judging, she steps back, revealing satisfaction,
an almost imperceptible smile. Mid-morning, she
removes her sweater, ties it 'round her slender hips.

A friend pedals up and hears: "Everything is fine —
air and light are perfect today." Her scene keeps
emerging — he leaves without her seeming to know.
Mid-afternoon, on an artist's inner cue, she stops —
possessing now what she had needed. She packs
her case, sighs for an instant, and leaves — carrying
the alley's soul with her. A rarer vision, though,
remains with me — a memory of her artist-self.