Afternoon with Monet

Lovely day here, the breezy and brilliant kind of spring day I imagined from Monet's painting, after which I wrote my poem. The traveling exhibition "Monet in Norman" visited the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco some years ago and it inspired me to write back to several of the paintings. Bought the book too, so I can keep talking back to Monet -- or rather, asking questions, as in this poem. Do you ever talk back to poems with your own poems?


I Spend an Afternoon with Monet
The poet interrupts the painter.It looks like a poem made of a thousand commas!I didn’t mean to be abrupt. He tips backhis hat to raise the black commas of his eyebrows.I can’t help myself; I ask When did the mists veil youand make you this burly old bride?
He pretends not to hear, flips offanother series of commas. The strokes daisy in rowsof white, maybe foam, maybe snowflakes.The skritch of his brush repeats itselffifty times as I wait. Everyone assumes white is his finishing touch, but I see he begins with airy patches,flecking light into bush, sky, and oceanas if seeing through lace. Is it his eyesight?
He begins with light, then adds darkemphasis. Light on light, the wholeof sky and sea in rhythm, as though harmonywere endemic as minnows or weeds.I stand back all afternoon and watchas he accrues, like a greedy accountant, like God,flakes, flocks, fleets, puffs, petals, and leaves.