A response of sorts to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18
Not that I wasn’t fond of it—the blues
and golds and thick brush strokes—perhaps it was
because I was so fond of it I threw
the art away, that life-size portrait of
eternal summer, mine, the painting in
which one hand reaches for the sun, the other
grows dark roots into the earth. Now all
that lives of those bright lines are these two hands
that painted them. With something less than care
I rolled the canvas tight and took it to
the trash, the company of grapefruit rinds
and last year’s mail. By tea, I’ve gotten used
to how the wall looks—empty, open, free—
already dreamed what else these hands might do.