Muse

The lamp swings like a pendulum, pictures sway on their nailsThen slip down the walls, leaving scratched trailsAmidst the quake, the grief, the confusion and scare Slowly ascending is my father's armchair
And beyond all these outlines of what you see thereBeyond the sofa, the nicknacks, the old furnitureThe light that pours in now paints something newIt reveals, it unveils at this moment a clue
The clue to a presence only he could once seeA presence he longed for, because only sheCould call him back home, and envelope him soTouching-not-touching, her hands all aglow
These pages, upon which he'll never scribble a lineAre floating from the shadow, right into the shineOnly she can now read the blanks, she and no otherHe's ascending into the hands of his muse, his mother.



Details from my oil painting, My Father's Armchair.